John 
Cave 

BY 
W.  B.  TRITE S 


JOHN  CAVE 


JOHN  CAVE 


BY 

W.  B.  TRITES 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
19*3 


Copyright,  1909,  by 

W.  B.  TRITES 

Copyright,  1913,  by 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


BOOK  I 


2138510 


JOHN   CAVE 

CHAPTER  I 

HAVING,  through  drunkenness,  at  the  age  of 
twenty- four,  lost  his  place  as  a  reporter  on  one  of 
the  newspapers  of  Chicago,  John  Cave  returned  to 
the  East. 

On  a  cold  and  starry  evening  in  November  he 
arrived.  His  luggage  a  station  attendant  piled  on 
the  roof  of  a  hansom,  and  the  driver  drove  him  to 
our  most  fashionable  hotel,  to  our  small,  red-brick 
hotel  down  town. 

At  great  expense  engaging  there  a  bedroom  with 
a  bath,  he  bathed  and  put  on  fresh  clothes  that  one 
of  the  hotel  valets  had  unpacked  and  pressed  for 
him.  Then  he  counted,  thoughtfully,  his  money. 
There  was  a  lot  of  it.  He  smiled. 

He  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  leaned  his  elbow  on 
the  white  mantel  of  the  bedroom,  crossing  his  feet. 
He  would  not,  he  told  himself,  look  for  work  for 
two  or  three  days :  there  was  no  need :  and  from  his 
lips  the  smoke  shot  forward  in  a  straight,  thin  line 
until,  its  momentum  lost,  it  floated  in  the  air  before 

3 


John  Cave 

him,  a  little,  swirling  cloud.  He  saw  in  the  smoke 
the  life  of  the  theatres  and  cafes  that  he  insatiably 
loved  .  .  .  and  he  smiled  because  he  was  young, 
because  his  cold  bath  and  careful  toilet  had  given 
him  a  sense  of  exquisite  freshness  and  purity  and 
strength,  and  because  he  expected  much  amuse- 
ment to-night  from  a  participation  in  the  gaieties  of 
our  venerable  city. 

In  the  mood  of  a  huntsman,  his  money  being,  as 
it  were,  his  fowling  piece,  he  descended  to  the  palm- 
room  of  the  restaurant,  a  room  pleasant  with  the 
music  of  violins  and  flutes;  and  choosing  a  little 
table  in  a  corner,  he  began  to  dine  with  a  good  ap- 
petite. He  had  finished  his  oysters  and  was  await- 
ing the  soup  when  .  .  . 

She  entered  gaily.  Her  beautiful  eyes,  sweeping 
the  room,  met  his  almost  at  once.  And  they 
lingered  in  his,  as,  attended  by  obsequious  waiters, 
she  advanced  with  gallant  and  joyous  air.  A  man 
of  middle  age  was  with  her,  but  she  gave  to  Cave 
the  friendliest  look  as  she  sat  down. 

He  was  flattered,  for  she  appeared  to  be  the 
daughter  of  a  rich  and  distinguished  house ;  but  at 
the  same  time,  too,  he  was  alarmed.  Perhaps  she 
thought  him  an  acquaintance:  it  seemed  incredible 
that  a  girl  like  her  should  flirt.  Nevertheless  he 
resolved,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  to  know  her.  It 
would  be  horrible,  though,  if  she  should  rebuff  him 

4 


John  Cave 

before  the   people   in  the  palm-room.    He  grew 
nervous  at  the  thought. 

Champagne  was  served  with  her  dinner,  and  she 
drank  to  him  prettily.  Afterwards  she  made  for 
his  benefit  a  grimace  of  amused  and  tolerant  dis- 
dain at  her  companion.  He  now  had  no  more  fear. 

His  only  care  was  how  best  to  approach  her,  and 
to  the  waiter,  when  his  fish  was  brought,  he  said: 

"  Can  you  tell  me  who  that  young  girl  is  over 
there?" 

The  grave  waiter  answered: 

"  No,  sir.  But  I'll  try  to  find  out  for  you.  I'll 
ask  some  of  the  other  waiters." 

And  he  went  here  and  there  solemnly,  whisper- 
ing to  this  man  and  to  that.  The  one  interrogated, 
without  interrupting  his  work,  would  cast  at  the 
young  girl  a  swift,  cautious  glance  and  shake  his 
head.  Discretion,  even  dignity,  marked  the  con- 
duct of  this  investigation. 

"  No  one  knows  her,  sir.  She  has  never  been 
here  before,"  the  waiter  said  on  his  return. 

Then  John  perceived  he  must  be  bold,  or  other- 
wise he  might  never  see  the  young  girl  again,  and 
the  memory  of  having  lost  her  friendship  through 
cowardice  would  in  the  future  grieve  him.  So  the 
next  time  he  met  her  smile  he  formed  with  his  lips 
the  question,  "May  I  come  over?"  and  she  an- 
swered, "  Yes." 

5 


John  Cave 

Thereupon  he  turned  pale,  and  rose  and  hastened 
to  her  table  with  a  terror-stricken  look. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  How  do  you  do  ?  I  haven't 
seen  you  for  a  long  time,  have  I  ?  "  he  said  in  a 
tremulous  voice. 

"  Not  for  a  long  time,"  said  the  girl,  and  her 
slim  hand  gave  to  his  a  pressure  swift,  delicate, 
enigmatic.  "  Your  name  is  Wilson,  isn't  it  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  Yes,  my  name  is  Wilson,"  he  agreed. 

She  introduced  him  to  her  companion. 

The  man  of  middle  age  had  a  diamond  button 
in  the  bosom  of  his  coloured  shirt,  and  with  his 
dinner  he  was  drinking  cafe-au-lait  out  of  a  big 
cup.  Cave  shook  him  by  the  hand. 

"  Sit  down  here  with  us  a  little  while,"  said  the 
girl. 

"  Yes,  pull  up  a  chair,"  urged  her  companion. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  John,  and  the  waiter 
brought  his  coffee  over. 

"  Now  you  must  have  a  glass  of  champagne." 
Her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin  upon  her  inter- 
locked white  fingers,  the  young  girl  gave  him  the 
invitation  with  an  arch  and  tender  smile. 

But  he  hesitated,  for  on  his  discharge  from  the 
Western  newspaper  he  had  resolved  never  to  drink 
again. 

"  No  ...  I  don't  believe,  thanks.  .  .  .  The  fact 
6 


John  Cave 

is,  I  ...  Oh,  yes,  I  will,  too."     He  laughed  a  weak 
laugh,  and  sipped  the  icy  wine. 

The  others  also  laughed. 

"  You  had  sworn  off,  hadn't  you  ?  "  murmured 
the  girl,  her  voice  a  little  sad,  a  little  reproachful. 

"Yes,  but  what  of  that?"  said  he.  "I  am  al- 
ways swearing  off." 

She  murmured :     "  So  am  I." 

"  I  never  swore  off  in  my  life,"  the  man  inter- 
jected, in  a  superior  tone. 

They  began  to  tell  of  the  harm  that  alcoholic 
drinks  had  done  to  them  and  to  persons  whom  they 
knew.  The  dinner  ended ;  they  ordered  another 
bottle  of  champagne;  their  conversation  became 
brilliant,  humorous,  profound.  The  violins  and 
flutes  made  a  soft  and  pleasant  music.  The  walls, 
lemon-coloured,  shone  like  gold  behind  the  green 
of  the  palms.  The  people  about  them  looked  opu- 
lent and  distinguished,  and  they  also,  they  felt,  had 
an  opulent  and  distinguished  look. 

But  the  young  girl  became  too  tender  in  her  man- 
ner towards  Cave,  and  for  long  intervals  forgot 
the  man  of  middle  age.  He  tried  to  make  it  seem 
that  he  did  not  mind  this,  but  he  could  not  shake 
off  the  gloom  that  settled  —  settled  like  cold  rain  — 
upon  him,  and  finally  his  animated  face  changed  to 
a  stony  and  forbidding  mask. 

He  began  to  look  repeatedly  at  a  thick  watch. 
7 


John  Cave 

"  It's  time  to  be  going,"  he  announced. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  yet,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes.  Get  ready  if  you're  coming  with  me. 
I've  got  to  make  the  nine-fifteen  train." 

"  And  I'll  be  left  alone  in  my  rooms  all  the  rest 
of  the  evening!  I  think  I'll  stay  here.  I  think 
I'll  stay  with  Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  Brown." 

She  smiled  a  delicate,  tormenting  smile. 

"  Mr.  who  ?  "  said  her  companion. 

"  Oh,  never  mind !  "     She  frowned. 

"  Well,  you  said  his  name  was  Wilson." 

"  Wilson's  my  name ;  you  have  forgotten,"  John 
interposed. 

"  Come  on,"  said  the  man.  He  had  risen  now. 
"  Come  on  if  you're  coming." 

The  young  girl  looked  at  Cave.  "  I  want  some 
more  champagne,"  she  said. 

"  Come  on ;  you've  had  enough." 

She  addressed  herself  to  Cave :  "  If  I  stay,  will 
you  get  me  some  more  champagne?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  I'll  stay." 

The  man  withdrew.  He  did  not  say  good-bye, 
nor  did  he,  as  it  afterwards  developed,  pay  his  bill. 
John  paid  it.  It  was  huge. 

When  they  were  left  alone,  the  young  man  and 
the  girl,  their  elbows  on  the  table,  their  chins  on 

8 


John  Cave 

their  hands,  looked  at  one  another,  admiring  one 
another  with  their  clear,  frank,  youthful  eyes. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  she  said. 

"  John  Cave.     What  is  yours?  " 

"  Prudence." 

"  That  is  an  interesting  name.  It  sounds  like  a 
little  country  girl's  name." 

"  I  am  a  country  girl.  My  people  all  live  in  the 
country." 

"  And  what  are  you  doing  here  in  the  city  alone  ?  " 

"  Father  thinks  I'm  a  manicurist.  ...  I  was  a 
manicurist.  But  I  gave  it  up.  Father  is  down  on 
me.  He  thinks  I'm  bad." 

"  I'm  sure  Prudence  isn't  bad,"  said  John,  and 
he  laughed  heartily.  He  lifted  his  glass.  "  Here," 
he  murmured,  "  is  to  Prudence." 

There  was  a  little  space  of  silence.  The  young 
girl  said : 

"  Tell  me  about  yourself.     Do  you  live  here?  " 

"  I  come  from  the  East,"  he  answered.  "  I  come 
from  a  little  country  place,  like  you,  but  lately  I 
have  been  working  in  Chicago.  I  lost  my  job  there. 
...  I  drank  too  much.  .  .  .  I'm  here  now  looking 
for  another  job." 

"  Were  you  ever  here  before  ?  " 

"  Never  before." 

"  Then  I'll  show  you  the  town,"  she  cried. 

9 


John  Cave 

In  a  hansom  they  set  out  to  see  the  town. 

The  hansom  rolled  smoothly  over  the  asphalted 
streets.  Many  fiery  stars  throbbed  in  the  cold  sky, 
and  the  frosty  air  was  pleasant  in  their  flushed  faces. 

"  Isn't  it  jolly?"  said  Prudence. 

"  Isn't  it?  "  he  murmured. 

She  drew  nearer  to  him.  She  was  beautiful  in 
the  starlight.  Her  mouth  was  close  to  his. 


10 


IT  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  he 
fell  asleep,  but  he  awoke  groaning  at  nine  and 
turned  hurriedly,  as  though  to  escape  something, 
to  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  He  was  frightened; 
a  misfortune  seemed  about  to  happen;  and  with  an 
oath  he  arose  as  one  flees. 

It  was  the  inevitable  seesaw  of  drunkenness.  As 
high  as  he  had  been  lifted  last  night  into  a  heaven 
of  illusory  happiness,  so  low  was  he  now  sunk  in  a 
hell  of  illusory  despair. 

Standing  on  his  feet,  he  lurched  a  little.  He 
felt  quite  helpless,  as  though  he  had  lost  all  weight, 
as  though  the  winds  could  blow  him  hither  and 
thither  like  fluff.  He  floated,  rather  than  walked, 
to  the  pitcher,  and  tremulously,  the  ice  tinkling,  he 
lifted  it  with  both  hands  and  drank  for  a  long  while. 

Already  he  felt  better,  and  the  cold  water  of  the 
bath  proved  a  delight.  He  slipped  into  it  luxuri- 
ously, letting  it  close  over  his  head,  and  then  he 
leaped  up  with  a  great  splash,  his  flesh  glowing,  his 
eyes  brilliant. 

But  the  exhilaration  of  the  bath  passed  off  while 
II 


John  Cave 

he  was  dressing.  Therefore  a  cocktail  was  need- 
ful, and  he  took  it  in  the  cafe  downstairs,  at  a  seat 
from  which  he  could  regard  the  people  hurrying 
through  the  cold,  bright,  windy  weather  out  of 
doors.  A  second  cocktail  made  him  quite  happy 
and  comfortable,  and  he  gazed  forth  into  the  sun- 
shine dreamily,  thinking  of  last  night 

They  had  driven  in  their  hansom  from  this 
cafe  to  that,  and  he  had  a  confused  memory  of 
the  cafes:  a  memory  of  lofty,  pale-hued  rooms, 
where  musicians  played  from  balconies,  and  where 
he  and  Prudence,  at  small  white  tables,  drank  cham- 
pagne and  conversed  with  vivacity,  bending  for- 
ward towards  each  other.  It  had  been  pleasant, 
only  Prudence  had  flirted  a  little  with  some  young 
men.  .  .  .  She  had  promised  to  meet  him  here  at 
eleven  for  breakfast  .  .  „  There  she  was  now. 
Very  critically  he  regarded  her  approaching. 

She  hurried.  The  ends  of  the  veil  bound  round 
her  hat  fluttered  out  in  the  great  wind,  and  her 
skirt  clung  to  her.  She  had  to  lean  forward  a  lit- 
tle to  advance,  and  this  apparently  amused  her,  for 
she  bit  her  lip,  as  though  to  keep  from  laughing. 
When  she  saw  him  she  waved  her  hand,  then  sud- 
denly put  up  the  other  hand  to  her  hat  to  keep  it 
from  blowing  off. 

He  hastened  out  to  meet  her,  and  they  paused 
beside  the  entrance  to  the  hotel. 

12 


John  Cave 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  laughing  breathlessly,  "  isn't  it 
nice  this  morning  ?  " 

She  panted,  her  lips  parted,  her  clear  eyes  shin- 
ing softly;  and  as  she  stood  before  him  her  hair 
and  her  apparel  streamed  out  in  the  wind  in  a 
charming,  fluttering  disorder. 

"  How  do  you  feel  ?  "  he  said. 

"  All  right.     Do  I  look  all  right?  " 

"  You  are  beautiful,"  he  answered. 

Thereupon  she  put  her  feet  together  and  bowed 
low;  and  this  bow,  gallant,  boyish,  gay,  had  the 
charm  which  characterised  all  her  movements,  the 
charm  of  an  unconscious  and  free  grace. 

"  I  am  hungry,"  she  said,  and  they  went  in  to 
breakfast. 

They  had  a  French  breakfast,  with  fresh  straw- 
berries and  an  amber-coloured  wine,  and  with  their 
coffee  they  drank  a  little  Tarragone.  The  room 
was  empty,  and  sitting  by  a  window,  they  laughed 
and  talked  as  though  they  were  at  home.  But  the 
people  hurrying  by  without  had  the  most  unpleasant 
expressions. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Prudence,  "  that  those  people 
out  there  all  have  to  work  to-day." 

"  Yes,  but  we  don't.  We  only  have  to  play,"  said 
her  companion. 

They  agreed,  after  breakfast,  to  take  a  drive  in  an 
automobile,  and  their  waiter  telephoned  for  them 


John  Cave 

to  one  of  the  electric  cab  companies,  and  soon  a 
tremendous  hansom  came  on  its  broad  rubber  tyres 
down  the  street,  and  drew  up  by  their  window. 

Prudence  clapped  her  hands.  "  Hurry !  "  she 
said,  "  hurry ! "  She  tugged  gaily  at  her  gloves, 
and  while  John  waited  for  his  change  she  paced  the 
floor.  "  That  waiter !  Why  doesn't  he  hurry  ?  " 
she  cried. 

They  seated  themselves  on  the  comfortable  cush- 
ions of  the  hansom,  and  it  started  smoothly,  and 
was  soon  gliding  at  a  great  rate  of  speed  over  the 
asphalt.  And  without  abating  its  speed  it  curved 
in  and  out  very  marvellously  among  the  horse 
vehicles,  which  seemed  lumbering  beside  it. 

"  Don't  the  people  stare  at  us  ?  "  said  Prudence. 

"  They  envy  me,"  John  answered. 

"  No ;  they  envy  me,"  said  the  young  girl.  She 
pressed  his  hand  lightly  beneath  the  rug,  looked  up 
in  his  eyes  and  laughed.  "  There,"  she  resumed, 
nodding  towards  a  grey  building,  "  there  is  the  girls' 
high  school.  That  is  where  I  ought  to  be." 

"  But  this  is  nicer,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  it  was,"  she  cried. 

In  a  little  while  they  were  in  the  Park.  The 
broad,  white  drive,  deserted  save  for  a  lonely 
horseman  or  horsewoman  here  and  there,  had 
wooded  hills  upon  the  right,  and  on  the  left  the 
river,  which  lay  in  the  wind  and  sunshine  rough  and 


John  Cave 

glittering.  The  speed  of  the  hansom  increased. 
The  cold  streamed  in  their  faces.  Leaves  of  yellow 
and  red  fluttered  through  the  clear  air  and  lay  in 
myriads  on  the  ground ;  then  rose  upon  their  stems, 
when  a  gust  came  suddenly,  and  scurried  dancing 
together  down  the  drive  like  gay  little  beings  that 
had  life. 

"  You  promised  me  last  night,"  said  John,  "  that 
you  would  tell  me  all  about  yourself  when  you 
knew  me  better." 

"  Well,  so  I  will,"  Prudence  answered. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  he  said,  desiring  to  hear  some- 
thing extraordinary  and  pathetic,  hoping  to  be 
deeply  moved. 

"  You  are  inquisitive." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  urged. 

"  You  can  guess,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

A  roadside  inn  appeared,  and  he  directed  the 
driver  to  stop  at  it.  "  We'll  go  in  there,"  he  said, 
"  and  drink  a  glass  of  champagne." 

"  That  suits  me,"  she  answered,  and  she  leaped 
gaily  from  the  hansom. 

But  John,  seated  in  the  inn  parlour,  became  silent 
and  gloomy.  For  the  desire  to  get  drunk,  which  had 
been  troubling  him  a  little  all  the  morning,  pos- 
sessed him  now,  and  he  was  unhappy  to  perceive 
that  he  was  going  to  yield  to  it. 

15 


John  Cave 

He  asked  himself  feebly  why  he  should  yield, 
and  all  the  molecules  of  his  being  answered  in  a 
chorus : 

"  You  feel  a  febrile  restlessness  and  a  febrile  dis- 
content. This  feeling  permeates  and  possesses  you. 
Therefore  you  cannot  think  of  Prudence's  beauty. 
You  can  only  think  that  to  be  so  wretched  is  not  to 
be  borne.  And  you  know  there  is  a  remedy  for 
your  wretchedness.  Hurry,  then,  to  take  the 
remedy.  Hurry  to  drink  yourself  into  a  stupor, 
for  there  is  now  no  other  way  for  you  to  be  at 
peace." 

He  emptied  his  glass,  refilled  it,  emptied  it  again. 

"  Don't !  "  cried  Prudence,  trying  to  snatch  the 
bottle  away. 

"Here,  stop  that!"  he  snarled. 

He  drank  on  and  on  until  the  figure  of  the  young 
girl  became  indistinct,  and  the  world,  grown  vague 
and  immaterial,  rocked  slightly.  ...  It  seemed  that 
Prudence  was  alarmed,  that  she  was  angry,  that 
there  were  tears  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  .  .  .  She 
said  good-bye  to  him,  she  disappeared.  That  was 
well,  for  he  wished  to  be  alone. 

For  three  days  his  debauch  lasted.  They  turned 
him  out  of  his  hotel  because  he  could  not  settle  his 
bill  there,  and  they  said  they  would  hold  his  lug- 
gage until  he  should  return  and  pay  them.  He 
drank  beer  and  whisky.  He  scarcely  slept  or  ate. 

16 


John  Cave 

He  pawned  his  watch  and  rings.  He  neither  shaved 
nor  changed  his  linen.  And  at  the  end,  with  his 
last  quarter-dollar,  he  got  a  bed  in  a  cheap  lodging- 
house,  lay  down  without  undressing,  and,  a  vaga- 
bond among  other  vagabonds,  slept  fitfully,  tor- 
mented by  horrible  dreams. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  rained,  and  it  was  dark  and  cold:  a  sodden 
morning.  But  John,  without  an  umbrella,  without 
an  overcoat,  without  a  cent,  walked  the  streets  be- 
cause he  had  no  place  of  shelter. 

And  he  looked  forlorn.  Wet,  unshaven,  in 
soiled  linen,  his  coat  collar  turned  up,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  back  bowed  submissively,  he 
plodded  on.  And  from  his  hat  brim,  when  he  bent 
his  head,  there  descended  on  him  a  little,  chilly 
waterfall. 

Musing  on  his  case,  he  laughed  a  little.  In  five 
days  he  had  fallen  to  a  tramp's  level,  and  he  could 
not  now  try  to  uplift  himself  by  applying  anywhere 
for  work  because  his  appearance  was  a  tramp's. 
He  did  not  know  how,  in  the  future,  he  was  to  eat, 
nor  where  he  was  to  sleep.  There  was  not  a  soul 
in  the  world  from  whom  he  had  the  right  to  ask 
help. 

He  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  morning  of  the 
day  before,  but  he  had  no  hunger,  the  absence  of 
appetite  being  the  natural  sequence  of  his  debauch. 
He  had,  though,  the  sense  of  an  abnormal  interior 
emptiness  and  lightness,  and  there  were  also  oc- 

18 


John  Cave 

casional  interior  gripings,  as  though  an  impertinent 
hand  squeezed  some  tender  inner  organ. 

He  walked  very  fast.  That  kept  him  warm.  It 
also  kept  his  thoughts  upon  the  surface  of  his 
plight,  kept  them  from  plumbing  its  black  depths, 
wherein,  perhaps,  drowsed,  easily  to  be  awakened, 
monstrous  shapes  of  fear  and  despair. 

Coming  on  a  public  library,  he  entered,  selected 
a  magazine,  and  tried  to  read.  But  his  drenched 
trousers,  when  he  was  seated,  glued  themselves  to 
his  knees,  wetting  and  chilling  the  flesh;  and  be- 
sides, to  sit  still  brought  on  him  an  intolerable  nerv- 
ous depression.  So  he  soon  hurried  out  into  the 
rain  again. 

Steam-coloured  vapours  sagged  low  in  the  sky. 
The  world  seemed  hopeless,  listless.  But  the  rain- 
drops gave  to  the  storm  an  effect  of  gaiety,  for,  as 
they  broke  upon  the  black  sidewalks  with  their  tiny 
silver  splash,  they  resembled  a  host  of  little  jack- 
stones  spinning  and  leaping  merrily  together. 

He  approached  a  policeman  on  a  corner,  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  and  said: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  am  broke."  He 
smiled  miserably.  "  I  have  no  friends  here,  and 
no  money,  and  no  place  to  sleep.  Isn't  there  in  this 
town  some  sort  of  a  society  that  feeds  and  gives 
you  a  night's  lodging  in  return  for  work  that  you 
do  at  wood-chopping  ?  " 


John  Cave 

"  Yes.  Here's  one  of  their  cards.  You  go  up 
there  at  five  o'clock,"  said  the  policeman. 

As  it  was  not  yet  noon,  he  returned  to  the  public 
library  to  await  the  opening  of  the  Wayfarers' 
Lodge,  for  that  was  the  name,  according  to  the 
card,  of  the  institution  that  was  to  shelter  him. 
He  sat  by  a  steam  radiator,  and  sometimes  he  read, 
sometimes  he  mused.  A  young  girl,  pretty  and 
bold,  passed  him,  carrying  a  book.  Her  eyes  ig- 
nored the  unkempt  figure,  her  eyes  that  a  week  ago 
would  have  caressed  him.  .  .  .  And  now  thirst, 
followed  by  hunger,  told  him  his  stomach  was  re- 
covering from  the  disorder  occasioned  in  it  by  his 
intemperance,  and  set  him  to  glancing  very  fre- 
quently at  the  clock.  At  last  the  hour  he  desired 
came,  and  John  departed. 

But  it  was  cold  out!  Never  before  had  the  cold 
so  tortured  him.  It  trickled  icily  through  his  flesh, 
and  like  a  man  with  palsy  he  could  not  restrain  his 
continual  and  violent  shivering.  The  twilight  had 
come  on.  The  fine  rain  rolled  through  the  twilight 
its  misty  billows,  and  the  street  lamps  shot  lines  of 
gold  across  the  bluish  dusk. 

He  knew  the  Wayfarers'  Lodge  a  long  way  off, 
for  about  it  there  stood  a  crowd  of  sixty  or  seventy 
men  without  overcoats  and  without  umbrellas.  He 
approached  them,  he  became  one  of  them,  and  his 
heart  sickened  with  disgust  of  his  new  brothers. 

20 


John  Cave 

Their  dull  eyes  looked  at  nothing  gloomily. 
Their  collars  were  turned  up,  their  hands  were  in 
their  pockets,  their  backs  were  bowed  submissively 
to  the  weather.  Very  red  and  lustrous  from  ex- 
posure were  their  noses,  and  the  fine  rain  had  coated 
their  moustaches  with  a  silvery  powder. 

The  door  of  the  lodge  opened,  a  bar  of 
yellow  light  divided  the  darkness,  and  down  this 
bar  of  light  a  fat  man  came  running. 

"  Get  in  line,"  he  shouted,  and  he  rushed  here 
and  there,  pushing  and  pulling  the  men,  while  the 
rain  fell  on  his  bald  head. 

After  the  formation  of  the  line  he  hurried  back 
into  the  lodge  again,  and,  from  a  desk  near  the 
door,  admitted  his  pensioners  and  interrogated 
them,  one  at  a  time. 

John  in  his  turn  entered.  He  gave  his  name,  his 
last  address,  and  his  last  occupation ;  and  in  a  loud 
voice  full  of  surprise  and  indignation  the  superin- 
tendent said  he  ought  to  be  ashamed,  with  his  ad- 
vantages, to  have  fallen  so  low. 

The  unhappy  young  man  passed  down  the  room. 
It  was  clean  and  bare.  There  were  two  dining- 
tables  in  it  and  a  bookcase,  and  on  the  white  wall 
these  texts  were  painted  in  red  letters : 

"  Wine  is  a  mocker,  strong  drink  is  raging,"  and 
"  I  will  return  to  my  Father." 

He  descended  slowly  a  dark  staircase,  approach- 

21 


John  Cave 

ing  a  great  light  from  which,  as  from  a  megaphone, 
there  issued  the  genial  roar  of  a  multitude  of  males 
conversing  in  close  quarters.  The  light  was  an 
open  doorway.  He  went  through  it,  and  found 
himself  in  a  low-ceiled  basement  room  crowded 
with  his  brothers. 

In  the  illumination  and  the  warmth  their  red 
and  shining  faces  smiled.  They  smoked,  con- 
versed, laughed,  bustled  here  and  there  with  an  air 
of  absorption  and  importance.  A  heavy  odour 
arose  from  their  old,  wet  clothes. 

Upon  the  benches  that  ran  the  length  of  each  of 
the  four  walls  they  sat  erect  and  close  together; 
and  they  sat  on  the  ledges  of  the  three  bath-tubs  of 
rusty  iron  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room ;  and 
they  sat  on  the  floor.  On  a  hanging  shelf  lay  a  dis- 
ordered heap  of  magazines  and  works  of  fiction 
from  which  they  were  always  tearing,  in  a  preoc- 
cupied way,  pages  to  light  their  pipes  with. 

In  a  corner  two  -very  old,  tall,  gaunt  men  kept 
to  themselves.  In  another  corner,  a  little  apart, 
three  negroes  conversed  in  low  voices  with  polite 
smiles.  The  rest  made  one  family,  one  herd. 

Now  a  little,  thin  old  man  near  John  took  out  of 
his  pocket  something  wrapped  in  a  square  of  news- 
paper. He  unfolded  the  wrapping,  and  there  was 
in  his  hand  a  piece  of  soap.  He  turned  on  the 
water  in  one  of  the  bath-tubs.  He  washed,  ab- 

22 


John  Cave 

sorbed  in  his  task,  his  handkerchief,  and,  when  it 
was  clean,  he  put  it  to  dry  upon  a  line  hung  near 
the  furnace. 

Then  a  youth  took  off  his  stockings,  replaced  his 
shoes  on  his  bare  feet,  and  washed  and  hung  his 
stockings  up.  The  line  soon  was  filled  in  this  man- 
ner with  drying  handkerchiefs  and  drying  stock- 
ings. 

A  bell  rang,  and  an  attendant  led  upstairs  to  the 
dining-room  a  squad  that  included  John.  At  his 
plate  he  found  a  bowl  of  weak  soup,  a  half-loaf  of 
bread,  and  a  cup  of  weak  tea.  He  ate  heartily. 

His  companions  bartered  their  food  with  one  an- 
other, some  disliking  soup,  others  disliking  tea. 
What  bread  they  had  remaining  at  the  meal's  end 
they  carried  down  to  the  basement  with  them  in 
their  pockets. 

And  down  there  it  was  gayer  than  ever  after  sup- 
per. Everybody  smoked  and  conversed.  All  the 
faces,  slightly  flushed,  smiled.  The  three  negroes, 
withdrawn  behind  the  furnace,  shook  with  sup- 
pressed laughter. 

But  in  their  corner,  side  by  side,  aloof,  the  two 
tall,  gaunt,  old  men  sat  silent  and  motionless,  their 
aspect  stern,  sad,  disdainful,  their  backs  straight, 
their  feet  set  firmly  on  the  floor,  their  old  hands  on 
their  bony  knees. 

An  attendant  put  in  the  stoppers  and  turned  on 
23 


John  Cave 

the  spigots  of  the  three  rusty  tubs.  Instantly  the 
men  began  to  undress;  but  John  did  not  follow 
them  there.  For  he  reasoned  that,  since  there 
were  over  sixty  compulsory  baths  to  be  taken,  the 
filling  and  emptying  of  th<  lubs  over  sixty  times 
would  occasion  for  the  majority  a  great  deal  of 
waiting.  He,  for  his  part,  did  not  care  to  wait  so 
long. 

But  the  others  disrobed  with  frantic  haste,  and 
were  all  naked  in  a  moment.  Sixty  naked  men,  so 
closely  crowded  about  the  tubs  that  the  soft  white 
flesh  of  their  shoulders  and  legs  touched. 

And  as  the  tubs  gradually  filled  they  struggled 
for  precedence.  That  mass  of  interlocked  flesh,  re- 
volving slowly,  squirmed,  pushed,  and  gave  out  an 
angry  murmur,  a  murmur  of  subdued  remonstrances 
and  objurgations. 

"  All  right !  "  cried  the  attendant. 

And  they  leaped,  three  and  four  at  a  time,  into 
the  water,  where  they  touched  themselves  daintily 
here  and  there  with  their  wetted  palms,  and  then 
got  out,  and  others  took  their  places. 

John,  perceiving  how  the  land  lay,  began  now  in 
his  turn  to  throw  off  his  clothes  with  frantic  haste. 
For  there  was  to  be,  it  seemed,  no  change  of  the 
water,  and  it  behooved  him  who  desired  a  cleansing 
rather  than  a  pollution  to  be  one  of  the  first  to 
bathe. 

24 


John  Cave 

He  undressed.  With  very  long  strides  he  tip- 
toed, shuddering,  across  the  horrible  floor,  and  he 
stepped  into  one  of  the  tubs.  .  .  . 

But  the  three  negroes  waited  until  all  the  white 
men  had  finished  before  they  got  into  the  water  in 
their  turn.  They  waited  naked  in  a  corner ;  they 
looked  tall  and  straight ;  they  were  silent ;  they  had 
an  air  of  proud  humility. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  the  morning,  after  they  had  chopped  wood 
three  hours  in  payment  for  their  food  and  shelter, 
the  men  threw  down  their  tools  at  the  sound  of  a 
gong,  and  hurried  gravely  away,  like  business  men 
hurrying  to  their  offices. 

But  John  departed  slowly.  More  than  ever  he 
resembled  a  tramp  now.  Therefore  he  decided 
that  he  would  take  for  the  present  some  kind  of 
manual  work.  He  walked  on  with  his  eyes  open 
for  a  building  operation  where  he  might  ask  for  a 
place  as  a  hod-carrier. 

There  was  no  warmth  in  the  bright,  hard  sunshine, 
and  the  wind  was  cold.  It  seemed  to  pierce  his 
chest,  and  a  pain  shot  through  his  left  side.  Sud- 
denly he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing  so  violent 
that  he  had  to  stop  and  support  himself  while  it 
racked  and  shook  him.  The  street  was  a  fash- 
ionable one,  and  many  well-dressed  persons,  as 
they  passed,  regarded  him,  coughing  in  that  way, 
with  disapproval. 

"Well!  .  .  .  John  Cave!" 

It  was  Prudence. 

26 


John  Cave 

He  restrained,  as  well  as  he  could,  his  cough, 
and,  taking  off  his  dusty  hat,  he  addressed  the  young 
girl  humbly. 

"  You  are  kind,"  he  said,  "  to  speak  to  me." 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  she  said  sadly. 

"  I  have  gone  to  pieces,"  he  answered. 

"  Are   you   down  —  altogether   down  ?  " 

He  frowned.  The  stares  of  the  passers-by  em- 
barrassed and  angered  him.  In  silence  he  regarded 
the  pavement. 

"  Tell  me  —  I  want  to  know " 

"  But  I  can't  tell  you  anything  here." 

"  Will  you  come  and  see  me,  then  ?  Soon  ?  .  .  . 
This  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  thank  you.  Good- 
bye." 

"  This  is  my  address,"  said  Prudence.  She  put  a 
card  in  his  hand.  "  Good-bye." 

He  did  not  intend,  for  shame,  to  go  and  see  her, 
but  at  three  places  he  failed  to  get  a  hod-carrier's 
job,  and  as  the  afternoon  wore  on  the  pain  in  his 
side  increased.  His  cough  hurt  his  chest.  He  was 
miserable  with  fatigue  and  cold.  Just  to  warm 
himself,  just  to  rest.  .  .  . 

And  Prudence  was  awaiting  him.  Her  rooms, 
in  a  subdued  light,  had  an  air  of  good  taste,  of 
luxury,  of  intimacy. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  it  is  pleasant  here." 
27 


John  Cave 

He  warmed  himself  before  the  fire  flaming  in  the 
grate.  He  rested  in  a  deep,  soft  chair. 

"  I'm  tired  and  sick,"  he  said. 

She  put  on  a  little  table  beside  him  a  syphon  and 
a  spirit  case.  He  drank,  and  immediately  he  was 
comfortable  and  happy. 

"  How  in  the  world,"  said  Prudence,  "  did  you 
get  in  this  condition  ?  " 

He  lighted  one  of  her  Egyptian  cigarettes,  and, 
smoking  and  sipping  his  whisky  and  soda,  he  told 
her. 

She  was  sympathetic,  scornful,  a  little  amused. 

"  You  are  a  funny  fellow,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  a  funny  fellow,"  he  agreed.  "  When  I 
am  at  work,  I  long  only  for  amusement.  In  the 
midst  of  amusement  only  work  seems  worth  while." 

"  When  you  work,  do  you  get  on  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered ;  and,  as  the  whisky 
magnified  his  good  opinion  of  himself,  he  praised 
his  talent  as  a  reporter.  In  the  pleasant  room,  be- 
fore the  bright  fire,  lounging  in  the  big  chair,  a 
cigarette  in  one  hand,  the  other  toying  with  a 
whisky  glass,  he  lauded  himself  extravagantly. 
And  he  would  have  kept  on,  perhaps,  an  hour,  but 
he  happened  to  catch  sight  of  his  reflection  in  a 
mirror,  and  that  picture  halted  him.  His  look  of 
happiness  changed  to  one  of  disgust. 

28 


John  Cave 

"  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  I  never  thought  I'd  come 
to  this." 

He  rubbed  the  brown  bristles  on  his  unshaven 
chin. 

Prudence  laughed.  "  Cheer  up,"  she  said. 
"  We'll  put  you  on  your  feet  again." 

She  declared  that  they  would  dine  together  in  her 
rooms.  She  telephoned  to  a  fashionable  restaurant, 
and  in  a  little  while  their  dinner  arrived.  She  drew 
the  heavy  green  curtains,  and  she  set  white  candles 
on  the  table. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  we'll  have  a  jolly  evening." 

"Won't  we?"  said  he. 

He  ate  slowly,  regarding  with  approval  her  Per- 
sian rugs,  her  pictures,  and  her  chests  and  arm- 
chairs of  carved  wood. 

"  These  things  of  yours,"  he  said,  "  are  fine. 
What  is  that  black  piece  over  there  —  a  cupboard, 
a  sideboard  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  lit  clos,"  Prudence  answered.  She 
helped  him  to  a  quail  and  filled  his  glass. 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  drink  anything?"  he 
said. 

"No."  She  looked  at  him  strangely.  "You 
can  drink  to-night.  I'll  do  something  else." 

"What  else?" 

"  Never  mind." 

29 


John  Cave 

And  after  dinner,  regarding  him  curiously, 
timidly,  she  brought  forth  a  small,  ornate  silver 
tray  whereon  there  lay  a  number  of  little,  glitter- 
ing instruments  of  strange  form. 

"You  'smoke,'  eh?"  he  cried. 

"  Only  now  and  then,"  said  Prudence. 

She  made  him  draw  the  dinner-table  and  his 
chair  nearer  to  the  couch,  and  beside  the  couch, 
upon  a  tabouret,  she  laid  the  silver  tray.  She  put 
out  several  of  the  candles  in  order  to  make  the 
light  softer,  and,  after  a  moment's  withdrawal,  she 
appeared  in  a  flowing  Eastern  gown  of  yellow  silk. 

"  We'll  have  a  jolly  evening,"  she  repeated.  "  I'll 
lie  on  the  couch  and  smoke.  You'll  sit  here  be- 
side me  with  your  champagne  and  your  cigarettes." 

She  filled  a  tiny  lamp  with  oil.  Then  she  lay 
down.  Her  look  was  happy  and  absorbed  and  ani- 
mal. She  was  enjoying  in  imagination  a  pleasure 
profound  and  degrading. 

"  This  is  peanut  oil  in  my  lamp,"  she  said. 

"  I  know,"  said  he. 

The  opium,  like  black  molasses,  lay  in  a  thick 
smear  on  a  playing  card.  She  took  up  a  little  on  a 
long  needle,  and  held  it  over  the  flame  of  the  lamp. 
It  cooked,  boiling  and  bubbling  and  swelling;  it 
changed  from  black  to  golden  brown. 

Prudence,  reclining  on  the  couch,  rolled  the  cooked 
opium  with  her  thumb  and  finger  into  a  round  pill. 

30 


John  Cave 

She  put  the  pill  upon  her  pipe,  and  she  held  the 
pipe  in  the  flame,  at  the  same  time  inhaling,  with  an 
ugly,  bubbling,  spluttering  sound,  the  smoke  of  the 
burning  drug. 

"  Do  you  like  that?  "  said  John. 

"Yes,  now  and  then,  for  a  change." 

And  in  the  soft  light,  incessantly  busy,  like  one 
who  sews  or  knits,  she  cooked  and  rolled  and 
smoked  the  opium  pellets,  absorbed  and  grave. 

Her  flesh  had  the  fine  texture  and  the  pure,  clear 
colour  of  the  petal  of  a  flower.  Her  lips  were 
scarlet.  Her  dark  eyes  gleamed  like  moonlit  water. 
She  lay  on  her  side,  her  hand  supported  her  head, 
and  when,  now  and  then,  she  turned  to  look  at  him, 
he  saw  beneath  her  disarranged  skirt  the  flash  of 
thin  ankles  in  stockings  of  amber-coloured  silk. 

"  Haven't  you  any  fear  of  getting  the  opium 
habit?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Prudence.  "  I  don't  believe  all  those 
horrible  stories  that  we  hear  about  the  opium  habit." 

"  I  suppose  they  are  exaggerated." 

"  Yes,  they  are." 

He  rose  and  stirred  the  fire.  Then,  for  a  while, 
he  paced  the  room. 

"  After  I  return  to  work,"  he  said,  "  I'll  look  you 
up  whenever  I  am  going  to  take  a  day  off.  What 
jolly  days  we'll  have  together." 

"  When  do  you  go  to  work?  " 
31 


John  Cave 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  saved  enough  money  to  get 
my  clothes  back.  I  am  going  to  work  first  as  a  hod- 
carrier,  to  save  the  money  for  my  clothes." 

She  laughed. 

"  Oh,  that  is  nonsense.  I'll  lend  you  the  money 
you  need." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  couldn't  think  of  borrowing 
from  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  on  account  of  pride." 

"  But  it  was  on  me  you  spent  all  your  money. 
You  might  as  well  let  me  help  you.  Then  you  can 
go  to  work  to-morrow." 

"  But  I  tell  you  .  .  ." 

He  bent  over  and  groaned,  placing  his  hand  to 
his  side.  A  sudden  and  overwhelming  pain  had 
seized  him.  His  hands,  his  body,  his  head,  his 
whole  being  were  drawn,  as  by  a  magnet,  towards 
that  intense  pain.  He  crouched  on  the  seat  of  the 
lit  clos,  contorted  into  a  small  knot :  a  small,  shabby 
knot,  writhing,  grunting.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  only  pleurisy,"  said  the  physician.  "  He'll 
be  himself  again  in  a  few  days." 


CHAPTER  V 

LIKE  messenger  boys  the  reporters  of  The  Press 
sat  in  the  dusty  local  room,  awaiting  the  errands 
upon  which  the  city  editor  would  send  them  forth. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  re- 
porters should  have  gone  forth  long  ago;  but  the 
city  editor  had  not  come  down  to  the  office  until 
one,  and  now  he  was  reading  the  papers:  a  task 
he  ought  to  have  finished  before  twelve. 

Unshaven  and  stale-looking,  the  city  editor  read 
listlessly,  a  pencil  held  in  his  mouth  crosswise.  The 
reporters  —  two  boys  of  twenty  and  a  half-dozen 
men  of  middle  age  —  lounged  in  their  chairs  with 
their  untidy  feet  on  the  desks;  they  held  news- 
papers open  at  arm's  length  before  them,  and,  smok- 
ing cigars  or  pipes,  they  vilified  the  various  per- 
sons of  eminence  who  figured  in  the  news.  A  group 
of  incompetents,  of  failures,  of  coarse  and  jealous 
minds,  they  abused  everything  successful  because 
they  were  unsuccessful  themselves. 

John  Cave  entered,  fresh  and  clean  again,  a 
flower  in  his  buttonhole,  a  stick  in  his  well-gloved 
hand. 

33 


John  Cave 

"  The  city  editor  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  loud,  pleasant 
voice. 

"  I  am  the  city  editor." 

Collier  had  taken  the  pencil  from  his  mouth. 
He  looked  at  John  with  his  hard,  bright  eyes, 
cocking  to  one  side  his  small  head  with  its  tuft 
of  stiff  hair,  and  in  this  position  he  resembled  a 
parrot. 

"  I  want  to  get  a  place  as  a  reporter,"  said  John. 
"  At  The  Sun  office  they  told  me  to  try  here." 

Collier  yawned,  stretching  out  his  arms  to  their 
full  length. 

"  We  do  need  a  man,"  he  said.  "  I'll  talk  to  you 
in  a  little  while.  Sit  down." 

John  took  up  a  copy  of  The  Press,  and  while  he 
waited  he  studied  the  paper's  character. 

The  paper  seemed  to  him  too  big.  There  was 
too  much  matter  in  it,  and  all  this  matter  was  dull. 
Nowhere  did  earnestness,  nowhere  did  humour 
manifest  itself  upon  those  huge  and  dreary  pages. 
Every  article  he  read  appeared  to  have  been  writ- 
ten by  a  stupid  man  half  asleep. 

He  took  note  of  the  assignments  that  the  city 
editor  gave  to  the  reporters.  The  assignments  all 
pertained  to  dull  and  heavy  things  —  to  business, 
politics,  prosaic  meetings  and  conventions.  And 
yet,  properly  considered,  the  news  was  replete  with 
things  strange  and  interesting,  with  sad  things, 

34 


John  Cave 

humorous  things,  things  of  an  amazing  and  in- 
credible oddity.  These  the  city  editor  ignored. 

When  all  the  men  had  been  sent  forth,  Collier 
turned  to  John,  asked  him  a  few  questions,  and 
engaged  him. 

"  You  can  begin  now,"  he  said.  "  There  isn't 
anything  in  the  way  of  an  assignment,  though " 

But  the  other  interrupted  with  respectful  ardour : 
he  would  suggest  an  assignment. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Collier,  in  a  resigned  voice. 

Then  John  pointed  out  in  that  day's  paper  a 
brief  paragraph  wherein  there  lay,  he  claimed,  the 
root  of  a  novel  and  ludicrous  story. 

But  the  editor,  who  had  been  putting  on  his  coat, 
said  in  reply  to  the  'enthusiastic  and  eager  young 
man: 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  That  story  is  not  in  our 
line.  By  the  way,  here  is  something  for  you,  after 
all.  There  is  a  corner-stone  laying  this  afternoon. 
It  is  six  miles  up  town.  There  is  the  address.  Get 
us  something  about  it." 

Collier  sauntered  out,  and  John  swore  in  a  low 
voice,  for  it  disgusted  him  to  be  assigned  to  an 
unimportant  corner-stone  laying.  That  was  leg 
work,  not  head  work.  Had  The  Press  no  novices, 

• 

no  boy  reporters,  to  do  such  work  as  that? 

Nevertheless  he  attended  the  laying  of  the  corner- 
stone, and  an  aged  bishop  revived  his  enthusiasm 

35 


John  Cave 

by  giving  him,  at  the  end  of  the  ceremony,  an  im- 
portant piece  of  news. 

The  bishop,  an  authority  upon  mine  labour,  ac- 
cidentally let  slip  the  news  that  Fipps,  the  great 
millionaire,  would  open  his  new  house  formally  in 
two  days  with  a  dinner  to  the  President,  and  at 
this  dinner  the  President  and  a  half-dozen  Amer- 
icans of  almost  equal  eminence  would  discuss  a 
new  policy  for  their  party  on  the  Labour  ques- 
tion. 

Nothing  about  the  dinner  had  been  printed.  No 
one  knew  anything  about  it  save  Fipps  and  his  six 
or  seven  guests.  Therefore  to  publish,  to-morrow, 
the  first  and  only  announcement  of  the  dinner  would 
be  a  great  honour;  but  the  day  after,  undoubtedly, 
the  whole  story  would  be  public  property. 

John  hastened  to  Fipps's  office.  The  secretary 
kept  him  waiting  in  the  anteroom  an  hour,  then  led 
him  in.  Fipps,  seated  at  his  great,  neat  desk,  a 
rosewood  desk  as  big  and  lustrous  as  a  piano,  looked 
up  to  see  if  his  visitor's  face  was  familiar,  and 
then  looked  away  again  with  the  cold  aloofness  of 
age  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

John  gazed  with  profound  interest  at  this  old 
man  who,  once  a  butcher,  had  climbed  to  the  top- 
most heights  of  power  and  wealth  because  he  had 
been  first  to  foresee  the  marvellous  future  of  the 

36 


John  Cave 

electric  car,  and  first  to  introduce  this  car  upon 
street  railways. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Fipps,"  he  said,  "  about 
the  dinner  you  are  giving  to  the  President." 

"What?" 

Fipps  frowned  down  at  his  polished  desk.  John 
stood  beside  him,  looking  at  his  beautiful  linen, 
at  his  alert,  resolute  and  hard  face. 

"  Your  dinner  to  the  President,  sir.  I  want  to 
write  an  article  about  it." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say." 

Those  words  made  John  unhappy,  and  yet  they 
were  the  words  he  had  expected.  He  wanted  (and 
Fipps  knew  it)  a  menu  of  the  dinner,  a  statement  of 
its  purpose,  a  description  of  the  dining-room,  the 
cost  of  the  gold  plate  —  all  those  things,  really  and 
naturally  interesting,  which  nevertheless  were  in 
bad  taste.  Indeed,  an  article  such  as  John  hoped 
to  write  would  be  apt,  if  it  appeared,  to  keep  the 
President  away  from  Fipps's  dinner. 

"If  you  will  tell  me " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say." 

John  moved  round  the  great  desk  until  he  faced 
the  millionaire.  Fipps  looked  up  at  him,  and  he, 
smiling  down,  said : 

"  Mr.  Fipps,  my  paper  wants  a  description  of 
this  dinner.  If  I  can't  get  it,  another  man  will  be 
sent  out  for  it.  I  must  get  it.  If  you  won't  help 

37 


John  Cave 

me,  I'll  have  to  patch  the  story  together  out  of 
pieces  of  gossip  —  your  friends'  gossip." 

"  Don't  print  anything.  I  am  not  going  to  give  a 
dinner,"  said  the  old  man,  and,  still  frowning,  he 
took  up  a  letter  as  a  sign  for  John  to  go. 

"  But  Bishop  Blany  told  me " 

"  I  don't  care  what  Bishop  Blany  told  you." 

John,  confused,  dismayed,  for  the  moment  utterly 
at  a  loss,  departed  in  silence. 

He  went  out  to  Fipps's  great  house  of  white 
marble  in  the  country.  As  he  had  expected,  the 
preparations  for  the  dinner  went  on  busily  there. 
The  gardeners  were  carrying  plants  from  the  green- 
houses. The  waggons  of  grocers  and  fruiterers 
were  coming  and  going.  At  the  station  he  even 
learned  the  hour  of  the  special  train's  arrival. 

And  thus,  by  dusk,  he  had  obtained  enough  facts 
for  a  two-column  story.  He  went  home,  and  in 
the  quietude  of  his  little  room  he  wrote  the  story 
swiftly  and  carefully.  Putting  it  in  his  pocket,  he 
hurried  out  to  a  restaurant,  ate  a  sandwich,  and  at 
last  returned  to  The  Press  office. 

The  city  editor  had  departed,  and  the  night  city 
editor  was  now  in  charge. 

"  My  name  is  Cave,"  John  said.  "  I  was  taken 
on  this  afternoon." 

"  You  are  about  three  hours  late.  You  ought  to 
have  been  back  by  six  o'clock,"  said  the  night  city 

38 


John  Cave 

editor.  "  There  is  a  church  meeting  up  town  you 
ought  to  have  gone  to  two  hours  ago." 

This  reproof  was  administered  in  a  loud  and 
threatening  tone,  and  a  copy  reader  and  three  or 
four  reporters  looked  up  with  interest  from  their 
work. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  I  know  I  am  late,  but  I  have 
a  good  excuse  to  offer  you."  He  took  the  Fipps 
story  from  his  pocket  and  laid  it  before  the  night 
city  editor.  "  This  is  a  story  about  a  dinner  Mr. 
Fipps  is  going  to  give  the  President.  The  dinner 
will  have  political  importance,  for  all  the  leaders 
of  the  President's  party  will  attend  it,  and  Bishop 
Blany  will  talk  about  the  Labour  question." 

The  night  city  editor,  a  dark,  handsome  man, 
listened  with  a  sneer,  and  he  turned  over  the  pages 
of  John's  voluminous  manuscript  disdainfully. 

"  This  is  all  right,  if  it's  true,"  he  said.  "  Have 
you  seen  Fipps  ?  " 

"Yes,  but " 

"  Well,  what  does  he  say?  " 

"  Fipps  denies  it,  but " 

The  other  handed  the  manuscript  back  to  John. 
"  That  settles  it.  If  Fipps  denies  it " 

"  But  I  am  not  a  fool,"  John  cried.  "  There  are 
a  hundred  confirmations  of  this  story.  I've  seen 
the  bishop.  I've  seen  the  fruiterers.  I've  seen  the 
chef.  I  know  all  about  the  special  train  that  will 

39 


John  Cave 

bring  the  President."  Indignation  and  disgust  over- 
came his  prudence.  "  Here  I  bring  you  a  good 
story,  and  you  treat  me  as  though  I  came  to  borrow 
money,"  he  said. 

"  You  had  better  hurry  up  town  to  that  meet- 
ing." 

"  Won't  you  read  my  manuscript  ?  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  have  made  the  interest  of  the  story  clear  to 
you.  Listen,"  John  persisted.  "  The  leading  pol- 
iticians and  financiers  of  America  will  attend  this 
dinner.  It  is  probable  that  they  will  agree  on  a 
new  policy  for  the  next  presidential  campaign.  Be- 
sides, Fipps  is  spending  money  on  the  dinner  with 
a  lavishness  passing  belief.  He  has  cabled  to  Lon- 
don, to  Covent  Garden  Market,  for  peaches  that 
will  cost  him  four  dollars  apiece." 

But  the  night  city  editor  turned  away  with  an 
inarticulate  sound  like  a  snarl  nd  John  set  out  for 
the  up-town  meeting,  carrying  in  his  hand  the  re- 
jected story  —  a  bulky  yellow  packet  of  which  he 
now  felt  ashamed. 

But  afterwards,  the  more  he  thought  of  the  story, 
the  better  it  seemed  to  him. 

"  By  Jove,  I  won't  be  beaten  like  this.  I'll  sell 
the  thing  somewhere  else,"  he  said. 

And  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  conversing  over  the 
long-distance  telephone  with  the  managing  editor 
of  the  most  successful  newspaper  in  America,  The 

40 


John  Cave 

Dispatch.  The  managing  editor  heard  him  out  in 
silence.  Then  he  said : 

"  That  is  a  good  story.  Wire  it  over  —  to  me 
personally  —  at  once.  We'll  use  it  in  full  to-mor- 
row morning,  and  if  no  other  paper  has  it  we  will 
give  you  a  special  rate  of  fifteen  dollars  a  column." 

Comforted,  delighted,  John  consigned  his  manu- 
script to  a  telegraph  operator  and  hastened  up  town 
to  his  church  meeting. 

The  story,  the  next  morning,  appeared  duly. 
Printed  in  big  type  and  illustrated  with  photographs 
of  Fipps's  house  and  guests,  it  covered  half  The 
Dispatch's  front  page.  More  fully  illustrated,  aug- 
mented besides  with  interviews  with  the  guests,  it 
covered  half  the  front  page  of  the  afternoon  papers. 
And  it  appeared  all  over  America  the  following  day. 
It  even  appeared  in  The  Press. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  Fipps  matter  did  John  no  good  in  The  Press 
office.  It  rather  did  him  harm.  The  reporters 
shunned  him,  and  the  night  city  editor  sneered  at 
him,  and  made  remarks  intended  to  insult  him. 
But  the  night  city  editor  would  not  meet  the  young 
man's  eye  when  he  sneereci,  nor  were  his  offensive 
remarks  ever  direct  enough  to  be  taken  up. 

Altogether  John  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  After  his 
long  debauch,  by  way  of  revulsion,  he  was  filled 
with  the  most  virtuous  sentiments,  with  the  greatest 
eagerness  for  work.  Yet  here,  day  after  day,  he 
did  nothing  but  attend  church  meetings  and  corner- 
stone layings;  but  gather  and  write  items  of  news 
that  never  required  more  than  a  paragraph;  but 
hurry  ten  miles  north  or  six  miles  west  on  tasks  a 
little  child  could  have  accomplished  as  well  as  he. 

His  hours  were  from  one  in  the  afternoon  till 
midnight.  In  the  superb  autumnal  mornings  he 
walked,  after  his  ten  o'clock  breakfast,  in  the  Park. 
He  walked  beside  the  river.  And  as  he  paced  the 
sunlit  paths,  as  he  breathed  the  cold  and  pure  air, 
he  felt  clean  in  body  and  in  spirit.  The  thought 
of  wine  revolted  him.  The  thought  of  tobacco  re- 

42 


John  Cave 

volted  him.  Sluggishness  and  vice  seemed  impos- 
sible. He  wanted  nothing  but  work. 

Fresh  from  the  open  air,  overflowing,  like  a  fiery 
horse,  with  vigour  and  energy  and  ambition,  he 
would  enter  The  Press  office  at  one,  only  to  sit 
there  like  a  messenger  boy  for  two  full  hours  —  the 
first,  best  hours  of  the  reporter's  day  —  awaiting 
the  work  that  the  city  editor,  always  behindhand, 
should  have  had  ready  for  him  on  his  arrival.  And 
as  he  waited,  all  his  hopeful,  cheery  energy  de- 
parted, till,  by  the  time  he  got  his  assignment,  he 
was  dispirited  and  limp,  and,  taking  his  task  from 
Collier  with  a  faint  sneer,  he  walked  out  swearing. 

Thus  three  weeks  passed.  It  was  certainly  dis- 
couraging. .  .  . 

Collier  rose  one  afternoon  from  his  chair.  Tak- 
ing the  blue  pencil  from  between  his  teeth,  he  gave 
one  of  those  tremendous  yawns  that  extended  his 
arms  to  their  full  length,  that  opened  his  mouth 
wide,  that  lifted  him  up  on  the  tips  of  his  toes. 
Then,  in  his  high,  nasal  drawl,  he  said: 

"  Cave,  look  here." 

"Well?"  said  John. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  a  meeting  of  the  Emerson 
Club  to-night.  The  Emerson  Club  is  literary. 
Some  verses  are  to  be  read  before  it  in  competition 
for  a  prize,  and  Gates,  the  Irish  poet,  is  to  speak." 

John  went  to  the  Emerson  Club.  Its  meeting- 
43 


John  Cave 

place  was  a  fashionable  theatre,  and  its  members 
resembled  a  fashionable  theatre's  audience,  the 
women  in  pale  gowns,  with  bare  arms  and  shoulders, 
and  the  men  in  the  lustrous  black  and  white  of  even- 
ing dress,  with  white  waistcoats  and  white  gloves. 
Everywhere  huge  diamonds  glittered  icily,  and 
those  long  strings  of  large,  pure  pearls  surely  rep- 
resented a  great  outlay  of  magazine  sonnets. 

A  row  of  seats  was  reserved  for  reporters,  and 
here,  in  their  dusty  clothes  and  muddy  boots,  a  half- 
dozen  reporters  sat  huddled  together,  as  unpleas- 
antly conspicuous,  amid  all  that  shimmering  ele- 
gance, as  a  blot  on  a  white  page. 

Behind  the  reporters  was  a  young  man  with  grey 
hair.  He  beckoned  to  John. 

"  You  are  on  The  Press,  aren't  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  John.  "  Haven't  I  seen  you  at  The 
Press  office,  too  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  am  a  Press  man."  He  smiled  pleas- 
antly. "  Sit  down." 

John,  seating  himself,  looked  about.  "  Litera- 
ture," he  said,  "  must  be  picking  up.  Among  lit- 
erary persons  such  splendour  as  this  is  unusual, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Oh,  these  persons  aren't  literary  exclusively. 
They  are  ladies  and  gentlemen  first,  literary  persons 
afterwards.  Banker-poets.  That  sort  of  thing. 
You  know  the  type,"  said  the  young  man. 

44 


John  Cave 

"  And  do  they  all  write  ?    All  of  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  all  write,  I  am  afraid." 

"  What  do  they  write  ?  " 

"  They  write  what  is  called  magazine  poetry. 
You  see  their  work  at  the  bottoms  of  the  pages  of 
the  duller  and  more  expensive  magazines.  '  Con- 
solation,' a  couplet,  by  Mary  Greeley  Stewart 
Stevens.  '  Restitution,'  a  quatrain,  by  Jethro 
Howard  Wilson.  Tiny  things,  tinier  almost  than 
their  authors'  names,  they  are  rhymed  correctly, 
and  there  is  even  a  thought  in  them ;  but  they  lack 
life,  music.  They  are  conventional,  mechanical 
little  poems,  as  correct  and  commonplace  and  dead 
as  the  essay  of  an  intelligent  schoolgirl." 

The  white-gloved  hands  of  the  members  of  the 
Emerson  Club  beat  together  gently.  A  faint,  polite 
applause  filled  the  air.  A  little  man  appeared  at 
the  back  of  the  stage,  and  advanced  towards  the 
footlights  with  a  quick,  awkward  waddle.  He  was 
thin,  and  he  bent  forward  from  the  waist  affectedly. 
His  hair  and  his  draggled  moustache  had  a  faded, 
parched  colour.  He  looked  as  dry  as  the  Sahara, 
as  dry  as  a  dried  fish. 

"  Who  is  that  dried-up  little  chap  ?  "  said  John. 

"  That  is  Morrison  Melvil,  the  president  of  the 
club,"  said  his  companion. 

"  And  behind  him  ...  is  that  Gates  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  Gates.     How  young  he  looks." 
45 


John  Cave 

The  poet,  tall  and  slim  and  dark,  stood  in  the 
shadow,  glancing  to  right  and  left  with  timid  in- 
terest. He  did  indeed  look  young.  He  looked  no 
more  than  twenty.  Yet  he  was  far  older  than 
twenty.  But  the  dreams  among  which  he  lived  had 
shed  over  him  something  of  their  imperishable 
beauty,  and  to  him  the  world  would  always  be  as 
fresh  and  strange  as  it  is  to  a  child.  He  would 
never,  perhaps,  look  old.  He  would  never  feel  old. 

Morrison  Melvil  introduced  him,  saying  stupid 
and  obvious  things  with  a  vivacious  manner.  He 
praised  the  work  of  Gates  a  little,  but  he  condemned 
with  prim  severity  certain  tendencies  in  it,  certain 
departures.  .  .  . 

"  The  little  ass,"  said  John's  companion.  "  He 
is  condemning  the  very  things  Gates  will  live  by. 
The  new  things,  the  original  things.  ...  I  knew 
they  were  what  he  would  condemn." 

There  was  a  burst  of  applause,  and  the  poet 
advanced  to  the  front  of  the  stage.  He  looked  like 
a  slim  and  diffident  youth.  He  bowed,  he  ran  his 
hand  through  his  dark  hair,  and  he  began  to  speak 
in  a  musical  voice.  He  spoke  in  simple  phrases.  He 
tried  very  hard,  it  was  evident,  to  make  his  thoughts 
quite  clear.  About  him  there  was  nothing  of  pose, 
nothing  of  affectation.  He  was  as  absorbed  and  as 
unconscious  as  a  child  at  play  alone. 

Many  beautiful  women,  as  they  listened,  regarded 
46 


John  Cave 

him  with  an  air  of  delicate  and  tender  sympathy. 
But  the  men  smiled  quizzically  at  one  another. 
They  had  come  to  see  a  charlatan;  that,  therefore, 
was  what  they  saw.  For  these  literary  men  took 
their  literary  opinions,  ready-made,  from  such 
sources  as  they  deemed  trustworthy.  For  fear  of 
error  they  never  dared  to  form  opinions  of  their 
own. 

Gates  spoke  on  the  drama.  He  said  he  thought  the 
play  the  highest  form  of  literary  art.  He  told  how 
he  and  certain  friends  of  his  were  devoting  them- 
selves to  the  writing  of  plays,  some  writing  in  verse, 
others  writing  in  prose,  and  he  described  the  themes 
of  his  friends'  plays,  and  he  read  from  them  pas- 
sages powerful  and  beautiful.  Then  he  took  up 
certain  popular  plays,  and  showed  how  false  and 
shallow  and  tawdry  they  were.  He  showed  how 
they  depended  altogether  for  their  success  upon 
crude,  false  sentimentality,  upon  sumptuous  scenery. 
In  conclusion  he  advocated  simpler  stage  settings: 
then,  since  the  success  or  failure  of  a  play  would 
not  involve  a  fortune,  many  more  plays  would  be 
produced  And  the  result  would  be  a  more  varied 
and  a  better  drama.  He  was  working,  he  said,  for 
a  better  drama.  That  was  all. 

That  was  all,  and  now,  one  at  a  time,  the  three 
leading  lights  of  the  Emerson  Club  replied  to  Gates* 
A  reply  must  be  a  contradiction.  Each  of  the  three, 

47 


John  Cave 

therefore,  contradicted,  and  each  used  towards  the 
poet  a  tone  of  mocking  condescension. 

The  first  speaker  said  it  was  impossible  to  return 
to  simpler  stage  settings.  He  had  seen  a  Greek 
play  the  night  before  where  the  settings  had  been 
superlatively  simple,  and  yet  this  play  had  been  a 
failure;  there  had  hardly  been  a  hundred  people 
in  the  house.  Thus  it  was  proved  that  simple  stage 
settings  would  mean  empty  theatres. 

The  second  speaker  was  ironical.  He  used  the 
phrase  "  to  elevate  the  stage  "  with  excellent  comic 
effect;  he  had  only  to  utter  it  to  send  a  roar  of 
laughter  through  the  hall.  And  somehow,  in  his 
auditors'  minds,  even  in  his  wiser  auditors'  minds, 
the  mere  repetition  of  this  contemptuous  phrase 
turned  all  who  wished  to  "  elevate  the  stage  "  into 
a  pack  of  silly  and  conceited  fools. 

The  third  speaker  had  once  collaborated  with  an 
actor-manager  on  a  Japanese  play  that  had  had  a 
long  run.  He  spoke,  therefore,  with  authority. 
What  he  said  was  that  those  who  condemned  the 
modern  drama  were  only  sore  and  bitter  because 
they  could  not  write  money-making  plays  them- 
selves. 

Gates,  during  these  speeches,  looked  bewildered, 
dismayed.  When  they  asked  him  to  make  a  few 
concluding  remarks,  he  rose  and  faltered: 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  make  my  meaning  suf- 
48 


John  Cave 

ficiently  clear  to  you.  I  am  afraid  you  did  not 
understand  me.  All  I  meant  to  say  was  that  we 
want  the  best  plays  we  can  get.  I  am  sure  you  all 
agree  with  me  in  your  hearts,  but  I  have  not  per- 
haps the  gift  of  expression,  of  oral  expression." 

He  made  a  little  hopeless  gesture  and  sat  down. 
They  laughed  and  applauded  him  indulgently.  It 
had  been  a  bad  rout  for  him,  they  said. 

Morrison  Melvil,  smiling,  rose  again,  and  held 
up  his  hand  to  quiet  the  mocking  mirth.  He  said 
in  a  good-natured  voice  that,  having  heard  both 
sides  of  the  question,  the  audience  perhaps  agreed 
that  the  poet's  ideas  were  neither  wise  nor  prac- 
tical. .  .  .  The  reading  of  the  prize  poems  was  now 
in  order.  This  year's  prize,  said  Mr.  Melvil,  would 
be  ten  dollars  in  gold. 

The  competing  poets  numbered  seven.  They 
were  all  males,  they  all  wore  white  gloves,  and  one 
had  his  manuscript  rolled  in  a  slender  cylinder  and 
tied  with  a  pale  blue  ribbon.  Each  poet,  before  he 
began  to  read,  made  three  profound  bows,  the  first 
to  the  president,  the  second  to  the  judges,  the  third 
to  the  audience.  The  competition  was  conducted 
in  a  solemn  and  stately  manner. 

The  poems  were  like  all  poems  that  are  written 
for  a  prize.  One  was  a  threnody,  one  was  an  ode, 
one  was  a  lyric  .  .  .  but  at  this  point  John  and  his 
new  friend  departed. 

49 


John  Cave 

In  the  street  they  laughed  a  little  as  they  lighted 
their  cigarettes. 

"  Threnodies,  odes,  lyrics,"  said  the  young  man 
with  grey  hair,  "  written  in  competition  for  a  prize 
of  ten  dollars,  and  read  with  white  gloves  on  the 
hands." 

"  This  is  the  most  provincial  city  I  ever  saw,"  said 
John.  "  It  is  not  yet  ten  o'clock,  and  already  Pea- 
nut Street  is  deserted.  Everybody  is  in  bed.  This 
isn't  a  city ;  it  is  an  overgrown  village." 

"  How  do  you  like  The  Press?  "  said  the  young 
man,  frowning. 

"  Not  at  all." 

A  motor  car  stood  before  a  silent  hotel.  Sud- 
denly, with  an  abundance  of  gay  laughter,  a  young 
girl  and  two  young  men  came  down  the  white 
marble  steps,  between  two  rows  of  electric  lamps 
that  flooded  them  with  light.  The  young  girl  wore 
no  covering  on  her  dark  hair,  her  gown  and  cloak 
were  white,  and  her  white  shoes  could  be  seen  as 
she  descended  the  steps  of  marble. 

The  chauffeur  leaped  from  his  seat,  and  began  to 
arrange  the  robes  in  the  car.  Suddenly  the  young 
girl  cried  in  a  clear  voice : 

"Well,  John  Cave!" 

"  Prudence,"  he  said  confusedly. 

She  gave  him  her  hand. 
5P 


John  Cave 

"  You  might  have  called,"  she  said.  "  You 
might  have  written." 

"  I  know,"  said  he.  "  I  am  working  on  The 
Press." 

"  Do  you  like  The  Press  f  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  am  going  to  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Miles." 

She  turned  to  the  taller  of  her  companions,  who 
was  talking  to  the  chauffeur. 

"  Harry,"  she  said,  "  come  here." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  said.  "We  haven't 
much  time,  you  know." 

Prudence,  smiling,  took  his  arm. 

"  I  am  going  to  introduce  Mr.  Cave  to  you.  Mr. 
Cave,"  she  explained,  "  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I 
want  you  to  take  him  on  your  paper." 

The  two  young  men  laughed. 

"  Are  you  —  ah  —  the  Mr.  Miles  ?  "  John  asked. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  other.  "  I  run  The  Dis- 
patch." 

He  took  a  card  from  his  pocket.  "  Here  is  my 
card,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  really  want  a  job  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  John  answered.  "  I  am  on 
The  Press  now." 

"  Well,   come   and   see  me  some  time   in   New 
York,"  said  Mr.  Miles.     And  he  took  back  the  card 
and  scrawled  a  line  on  it.     "  This,"  he  explained, 
"  will  get  you  in  to  me  at  any  time." 
51 


John  Cave 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Be  sure  and  come,"  said  Mr.  Miles.  He 
laughed.  "  Any  friend  of  Prudence's  is  a  friend  of 
mine." 

John  took  leave,  a  little  awed,  for  Miles,  a  young 
millionaire  from  the  South,  had  recently  established 
in  New  York  a  newspaper  that  in  expenditure  and 
brilliance  and  vulgarity  left  its  neighbours  far  be- 
hind. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  young  man  was  ?  "  he 
said  to  his  companion.  "  It  was  Miles." 

"Henry  Miles?" 

"  Yes." 

The  automobile  sped  away  with  a  musical  drone, 
and  Prudence  waved  her  white  hand. 

"  Come  and  see  me,  John  Cave,"  she  called. 

"So  you  don't  like  The  Press?"  resumed  the 
young  man  with  grey  hair. 

"  I  certainly  don't." 

"  But  you  appear  to  be  getting  on  well.  That 
murder  story  on  the  front  page  this  morning  was 
yours,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  No.  The  story  of  the  corner-stone  laying  on 
the  ninth  page  was  mine.  Perhaps  you  overlooked 
it.  It  was  only  seven  lines  long." 

The  young  man's  manner  suddenly  changed. 
He  regarded  John  sternly. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  you  are  Cave,  eh?  " 
52 


John  Cave 

John,  hurt  and  puzzled,  returned  his  angry 
stare. 

"  Yes,  I'm  Cave.     What  of  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  are  Cave,  I  don't  wonder  you  dis- 
like The  Press.  You  have  made  a  bad  start  there 
with  that  Fipps  matter." 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  know  about  the  Fipps 
matter?" 

"  I  know  all  about  it." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  John.  "  Then  what  did  I  do 
wrong?  " 

"  You  should  have  given  the  Fipps  story  to  your 
own  paper  instead  of  selling  it  to  New  York." 

"  By  Jove,  is  that  what  they  say  ?  "  John  cried. 
"  The  cowardly  liars." 

"Isn't  it  true?" 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  true.  The  Press  refused  to 
print  the  Fipps  story." 

The  young  man's  manner  changed  again. 

"  Oh,"  he  said.  "  Then  I  was  misinformed. 
Tell  me  your  side." 

But  John  was  sore  and  angry.  "  I'll  leave  The 
Press  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  I'd  rather  starve 
than  work  with  such  contemptible  liars." 

"  Tell  me  your  side  of  it,"  the  young  man  re- 
peated. 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  use?  I  am  sick  of  the  whole 
business." 

53 


John  Cave 

"  But  if  you  are  being  treated  unjustly  I  can 
help  you." 

"You?     How?" 

"  Don't  you  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I  am  Norris." 

"  The  managing  editor  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

John,  halting,  gave  a  loud  laugh.  "  I  am  meeting 
all  sorts  of  celebrities  to-night,"  he  said. 

And  then,  as  they  walked  onward,  he  narrated 
slowly  and  carefully  the  story  of  the  Fipps  dinner. 

"  Well  ? "  he  said,  at  the  end. 

"  They  told  me,"  said  Norris,  "  that  you  sold  the 
story  without  offering  it  to  The  Press." 

"  The  liars.  If  I  did  that,  why  didn't  they  dis- 
charge me  ?  " 

"  You  were  to  be  discharged  —  to-morrow." 

"  Am  I  to  stay  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

The  old  Press  building  appeared.  They  went  up 
together  in  the  old,  slow  elevator. 

"  Good-night,"  said  the  managing  editor.  "  I'll 
see  you  get  better  work  to  do." 

"  No  more  corner-stone  layings  ?  " 

"  No  more  corner-stone  layings."  Norris  smiled 
and  tugged  at  his  white  gloves.  "  Good-night." 


54 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOHN'S  bedroom,  on  the  fifth  floor  of  an  apart- 
ment house,  fronted  a  fashionable  street,  and  from 
his  window  he  often  studied  a  girl  across  the  way. 

Sometimes,  with  an  elderly  woman,  she  came 
forth  to  drive  in  the  Park.  Her  departure  made 
a  stately  and  splendid  picture.  On  the  box  of  the 
glittering  victoria,  restraining  easily  his  restive 
horses,  the  coachman  sat  erect  and  still.  The  foot- 
man stood  by  the  curbstone,  a  folded  laprobe  on 
his  arm.  The  butler  opened  the  huge  doors;  the 
two  women  entered  the  victoria  modestly ;  and  John, 
from  his  lofty  window,  peered  down  with  admi- 
ration and  awe. 

Sometimes  the  girl  came  forth  to  walk,  dressed 
trimly,  like  a  boy,  in  rough  cloth,  and  holding  in 
leash  a  Russian  deerhound. 

In  the  evening,  descending  the  marble  stairs  in 
the  clear  twilight,  she  was  like  a  fairy  princess  in 
her  pale  splendour.  Then  she  was  clad  from  head 
to  foot  in  white.  She  wore  a  long  white  cloak. 
There  were  white  flowers  in  her  yellow  hair. 

From  his  window  John  admired  her,  and  one 
55 


John  Cave 

day,  as  she  was  entering  her  brougham,  he  thought 
her  eyelids  fluttered,  and  her  dark  blue  eyes  met 
his.  Of  this,  however,  he  could  not  be  sure. 

He  had  good  work  to  do  now  on  The  Press.  He 
reported  murder  trials  and  the  launching  of  great 
ships;  he  interviewed  statesmen  poets,  princes,  all 
the  .city's  distinguished  visitor'  ,  and  nearly  every 
morning  he  had  a  column  of  matter  on  the  front 
page.  To  his  salary,  moreover,  five  dollars  had 
been  added. 

His  demeanour  in  the  office  changed  with  success. 
Diffidence,  in  the  beginning,  had  caused  him  to  ap- 
pear a  quiet  and  modest  youth,  a  sympathetic,  ap- 
preciative youth,  and  the  reporters  had  liked  him 
in  a  condescending  way,  feeling  indulgently  that 
here  was  one  who  realised,  who  even  perhaps  exag- 
gerated, his  immense  inferiority  to  themselves. 

But  with  success  his  tongue  was  loosened,  and  he 
criticised  everybody  freely.  He  meant  no  harm, 
he  never  dreamed  his  words  might  be  repeated. 
But  the  attitude  of  reporter  after  reporter  changed 
from  friendship  to  bitter  enmity,  and  at  each  change 
he  remembered  something  harsh  and  cruel  that  he 
had  said,  and,  shocked,  he  resolved  to  be  more  pru- 
dent. The  resolve,  however,  soon  passed. 

Always,  at  breakfast,  he  read  eagerly  his  story  in 
The  Press.  If  it  had  been  edited  by  the  night  city 
editor  it  appeared  unaltered,  but  if  Gray,  the  copy 

56 


John  Cave 

reader,  had  handled  it,  he  hardly  knew  it  for  his 
own. 

Gray  was  sometimes  called  the  rubber  stamp  man. 
For  eighteen  years  he  had  been  reading  copy  on 
The  Press,  and  certain  dog-eared  phrases  for  cer- 
tain commonplace  things  had  written  themselves  on 
his  mind  ineradicably.  Hence,  when  one  of  these 
things  came  up,  its  appropriate  phrase  must  always 
go  with  it,  and  if  the  reporter  had  not  used  the 
phrase,  Gray,  in  editing  the  young  man's  matter, 
put  it  in. 

According  to  Gray's  creed,  an  article  concerning 
a  public  square  must  always  term  the  square  a 
"  breathing  spot."  A  kiss  must  be  called  an  "  oscu- 
lation." An  oyster  was  a  "  succulent  bivalve."  A 
disease  was  never  caused,  or  brought  on  —  it  was 
always  "  superinduced."  Any  place  or  edifice  over 
fifty  years  of  age  must  be  dubbed  "  historic  old  " — 
"  historic  old  Christ  Church,"  or  "  historic  old 
Strawberry  Mansion." 

And  because  in  every  story  he  handled  Gray  in- 
serted, "  breathing  spot,"  or  "  osculation,"  or  "  his- 
toric old,"  or  "  succulent  bivalve,"  or  "  superin- 
duced," the  men  said  that  he  had  a  rubber  stamp 
for  each  of  these  phrases,  and  that  he  would,  when 
one  of  them  was  needed,  stamp  it  in  instead  of 
bothering  to  write  it. 

Gray   destroyed   everything  original,   everything 
57 


John  Cave 

picturesque,  in  the  stories  he  edited.  He  made 
them  all  read  as  if  they  had  been  written  by  him- 
self, by  a  stupid,  commonplace  man  of  forty-five. 

His  work  began  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  did 
not  end  till  three  the  next  morning,  and,  since  he 
lived  out  of  town,  he  was  obliged  to  return  home 
on  the  street  railway's  night  line :  a  ride  of  ninety 
minutes.  The  night  line  ran  irregularly,  and  Gray 
sometimes  stood  an  hour  on  a  corner  awaiting  his 
car.  In  winter,  in  the  dreary  hours  before  the 
dawn,  the  cold  tortured  him  unspeakably  as  he 
waited  for  the  infernal  night  line  at  some  deserted, 
wind-swept  crossing,  leaning,  muffled  in  his  coat, 
against  a  lamp-post;  the  loneliest  of  figures,  often 
obscured  in  a  swirl  of  snow. 

He  had  worked  on  The  Press  twenty  years,  and 
during  the  eighteen  years  he  had  been  reading  copy 
his  low  salary  had  not  once  been  raised.  He  was 
fat  and  silent,  saying,  when  he  did  speak,  mean  and 
cruel  things  that  he  accompanied  with  a  sour 
laugh. 

He  and  the  city  editor  sat  at  their  desks  one  day, 
and  John  awaited  his  afternoon  assignment  at  the 
other  end  of  the  local  room.  The  city  editor  took 
the  pencil  from  his  mouth  and  drawled : 

"  The  Maharajah  of  Kapurtha  has  reached  town. 
I  think  I'll  send  Cave  out  to  interview  him." 

"Cave!"  said  Gray.     "Oh,  Lord!" 
58 


John  Cave 

The  two  men  were  speaking  in  low  tones,  but 
John's  ears  were  sharp. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  Cave?"  said  the 
city  editor. 

"  He's  no  good.  He  doesn't  know  how  to  get  a 
story,  and  he  doesn't  know  how  to  write  one." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha ! "  laughed  Collier,  and  he  mused  a 
moment,  smiling;  then  he  summoned  John,  and 
gave  him  the  Maharajah  interview. 

"  We  want  a  good  story,  mind,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  try  to  get  you  a  good  story,"  the  young  man 
answered.  He  glanced  at  Gray,  and  his  heart  over- 
flowed with  rage  and  bitterness. 

"  You  won't  edit  my  copy,  though,  Mr.  Gray,"  he 
said. 

Gray  looked  perplexed,  angered. 

"  Uh  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  you  don't  know  how  to  edit  copy.  You 
spoil  every  story  you  handle.  But  you'll  spoil  no 
more  of  my  stories." 

"  I  won't,  eh  ?    We'll  see  about  that." 

John,  beside  himself,  leaned  over  Gray's  table, 
shook  his  forefinger  at  the  fat,  elderly  man,  and 
shouted : 

"  You'll  never  read  another  line  of  my  copy, 
Gray.  You  are  not  fit  for  a  copy  desk.  You  are 
a  stupid  and  illiterate  ass." 

Gray  rose. 

59 


John  Cave 

"  Damn  you,"  he  cried  shrilly. 

But  Collier,  who  had  been  listening,  intensely 
amused,  now  interfered. 

"  Go  get  your  story,  Cave,"  he  said.  "  Sit  down, 
Gray.  Don't  be  a  fool." 

John  found  the  Maharajah,  and  had  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  an  interview.  As  a  topic  for  discussion 
he  suggested  polygamy,  and  on  this  topic  the  prince 
was  quite  willing  to  talk.  He  said  many  ingenuous 
and  amusing  things  in  polygamy's  praise,  and  by 
the  way  he  attacked  monogamy  in  strong  terms. 

John  returned  to  the  office  and  wrote  three 
quarters  of  a  column,  taking  great  pains.  By  the 
time  he  had  finished  his  story  the  city  editor  was 
gone.  The  night  city  editor  and  Gray  were  reading 
copy.  Their  desks  were  side  by  side. 

John  crossed  the  room,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 
laid  his  copy  on  the  night  city  editor's  desk. 

Gray  looked  up. 

"  I'll  take  that  copy,"  he  said ;  and  he  held  out  his 
hand  for  it. 

John  glared  at  him.  Then  he  turned  to  the  night 
city  editor. 

"  Will  you  read  this  copy,  Mr.  Jones  ?  "  he  said. 

The  night  city  editor,  bent  over  his  work,  an- 
swered : 

"  Oh,  Gray  will  handle  it." 

"  No,  I'll  be  hanged  if  he  will." 
60 


John  Cave 

There  came  from  the  reporters  a  chorus  of  loud 
laughter.  The  night  city  editor  swung  round  in  his 
chair  and  frowned  at  John. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  growled. 

John  put  his  left  hand  in  his  pocket  because  it 
was  trembling.  His  trembling  right  hand,  which 
held  his  cigarette,  he  steadied  on  a  desk.  The  re- 
porters' mocking  laughter,  the  inimical  looks  of 
Jones  and  Gray,  depressed  him,  extinguished  the 
fire  of  rage  in  his  heart,  and  he  asked  himself  if 
this  ludicrous  squabbling  was  worth  while.  But  he 
could  not  retreat  now.  And  so  he  said,  loud  enough 
for  all  to  hear : 

"  Mr.  Gray  rewrites  every  story  of  mine  he 
handles.  Now  I  work  hard  on  my  stories :  if  they 
have  to  be  rewritten,  then  I  am  no  good,  and  I 
ought  to  be  fired.  I  claim  they  don't  have  to  be 
rewritten.  I  won't  have  them  rewritten.  Either 
they'll  be  printed  as  I  write  them,  or  I'll  leave  The 
Press." 

Jones,  restraining  one  of  his  rare  smiles,  said 
querulously : 

"  Oh,  don't  make  a  fuss  over  nothing.  You  don't 
write  literature  for  a  newspaper." 

"  His  stuff  is  rot,"  said  Gray. 

The  room  rang  with  laughter  again. 

"  That's  all  right  if  it's  rot,"  John  stammered. 

"  You  bet  it's  all  right,"  said  Gray. 
61 


John  Cave 

The  young  man  turned  again  to  the  night  city 
editor. 

"  Is  Mr.  Gray  to  handle  my  copy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  can't  make  any  exception  in  your  case.  I 
have  no  authority  to  treat  you  differently  from  the 
other  men,"  the  night  city  editor  answered.  "  The 
fact  is,  you've  become  a  nuisance  around  here 
lately." 

"  Very  well,"  said  John,  and  he  left  the  room, 
laughter  pursuing  him,  cruel  laughter,  which  stung 
like  a  whip-lash. 

He  found  the  managing  editor  in  his  office  alone. 

"  Mr.  Norris,"  he  began,  "  I  believe  you  are  a 
friend  of  mine." 

The  other  looked  in  surprise  at  this  pale  young 
man  with  twitching  lips  and  wild  eyes. 

"  I  believe  so,"  he  answered. 

"  You  are  the  only  friend  I  have  succeeded  in 
making  on  The  Press.  I  appear  to  have  made  only 
enemies  here." 

Norris  smiled. 

"  Calm  yourself,"  he  said. 

John  in  a  ghastly  way  smiled  back.  Then  he 
resumed : 

"  I  have  had  some  trouble  in  the  local  room.  It 
is  like  this.  When  Mr.  Gray  reads  my  copy,  he  re- 
writes it,  he  spoils  it,  invariably.  I  have  put  up 
with  this.  To-day,  though,  I  heard  him  say  I  was 

62 


John  Cave 

no  good,  and  I  determined  then  to  put  up  with  it 
no  longer.  I  told  him  he  should  never  read  another 
line  of  my  copy.  But  Mr.  Jones  won't  back  me  up : 
he  says  he  has  no  authority.  So  now  I  appeal  to 
you.  I  have  just  turned  in  an  interview  with  the 
Maharajah  of  Kapurtha  that  I  wrote  very  carefully, 
and  if  Gray  handles  it,  I  —  well,  I  am  going  to 
leave  The  Press  to-night.  Now  you  say  you  are  a 
friend  of  mine,  and ' 

John  hesitated,  looking  at  Norris  wistfully. 

Norris,  in  a  muse,  regarded  his  polished  nails. 
Then  he  jumped  up  and  paced  the  floor  with  quick 
steps. 

"  Cave,"  he  said,  "  I  know  quite  well  Gray's  limi- 
tations. But  we  all  have  our  limitations,  haven't 
we  ?  Even  you  and  I  —  we  have  our  limitations, 
eh  ?  And  we  must  remember  that  Gray  has  worked 
for  The  Press  twenty  years.  He  has  given  his 
youth  to  The  Press.  And  now  he  is  getting  old. 
And  I  don't  want  him  to  think  us  ungrateful.  How- 
ever   " 

Norris  paused  before  John,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  sudden,  friendly  smile. 

"  Go  and  get  your  Maharajah  story,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  edit  it.  And  to-morrow  I'll  see  what  can  be 
done." 

John,  a  little  sorry  now  for  Gray,  returned  to  the 
local  room. 

63 


John  Cave 

"  Mr.  Jones,"  he  said,  "  I  am  to  take  my  story  to 
Mr.  Norris." 

"  Gray  has  it,"  Jones  answered. 

Gray  gave  the  young  man  a  malevolent  glance, 
and  pushed  a  mass  of  yellow  manuscript  towards 
him.  The  first  two  pages  of  this  manuscript  were 
in  Gray's  handwriting:  John's  first  two  pages  were 
missing.  He  looked  in  the  waste-paper  basket  be- 
side the  copy  desk,  and,  seeing  them  there,  he 
picked  them  out.  Then  he  returned  to  Norris  with 
his  story. 

"  You  see  ?  "  he  said  excitedly.  "  He  had  al- 
ready rewritten  two  pages,  and  here  are  mine  —  I 
found  them  in  his  waste-paper  basket.  Now  you 
can  judge  between  us." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Norris.  "  Come  and  see 
me  here  to-morrow  at  two." 

And  he  bent  over  the  yellow  manuscript  busily. 

John's  story,  unchanged  in  any  way,  was  on  the 
front  page  of  The  Press  the  next  morning,  and 
in  the  afternoon  Norris  promoted  him  from  the 
local  to  the  editorial  department. 

He  now  wrote  brief  leaders  on  odd  topics,  and 
went  out,  under  Norris's  direction,  to  prepare  spe- 
cial articles  for  the  Sunday  edition.  Occasionally 
these  articles  were  signed  —  a  great  honour. 

And  five  dollars  more  was  added  to  his  salary. 

John  found  that  on  The  Press  the  editors,  like 
64 


John  Cave 

the  reporters,  were  in  a  rut.  Each  editor  had  held 
the  same  post  for  twelve  or  fifteen  years ;  his  work 
had  become  mere  dull  routine  to  him,  like  brick- 
laying or  street-sweeping;  and  he  drowsed  the  day 
away  at  his  desk,  writing  a  column  of  matter  me- 
chanical and  dead,  while  in  his  head  the  unused 
brain  dried  and  shrivelled. 

"  How  does  The  Press  maintain  its  circulation  ?  " 
John  said  one  night  to  the  managing  editor. 

"  It  doesn't  maintain  it,"  the  other  answered. 
"  For  two  years  the  circulation  has  declined  at  the 
rate  of  five  hundred  a  month." 

He  rose  suddenly.  It  was  midnight,  and  they 
were  supping  after  the  day's  work. 

"  There  is  Gates,"  he  said.  "  I'll  bring  him 
over." 

And  he  zigzagged,  napkin  in  hand,  amongst  the 
small  white  tables  towards  a  tall  figure  in  black. 
He  disappeared  behind  a  palm.  Then,  in  a  little 
while,  he  and  Gates  returned  together. 

The  poet  was  not  hungry,  but  he  would  be  glad, 
he  said,  to  smoke  a  cigarette,  and  drink  a  cafe 
verre.  And  sitting  beside  John,  he  looked  about 
him  with  childlike  interest,  and  he  began  to  talk 
in  his  timid,  gentle  and  simple  manner. 

John  had  read  two  years  ago  his  blank  verse 
drama  of  The  Shadowy  Waters,  and  the  deep, 
strange  music  of  the  lines  had  enraptured  him. 
65 


John  Cave 

He  thought  the  poem  a  great  work  of  art,  a  great 
work  of  genius;  and  here  beside  him  sat  the  poet, 
modest,  simple,  kindly;  interested,  like  a  child,  in 
everything. 

"  We  were  talking,"  said  the  managing  editor, 
"  about  The  Press.  We  were  telling  one  another 
how  bad  it  is." 

"  I  hope  you'll  keep  on,"  said  Gates.  "  American 
journalism  amuses  me." 

"  We  were  saying  that  The  Press  had  been  fall- 
ing in  circulation  at  the  rate  of  five  hundred  copies 
a  month." 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  said  Gates. 

"  The  trouble,"  said  the  managing  editor,  "  is  that 
The  Press  has  grown  old." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent  and  a  little  sad. 
Then  he  resumed: 

"  A  paper  ages  as  a  man  ages.  When  it  is  young 
it  makes  its  success.  Why?  Because,  then,  its 
owners  and  editors  work  together  with  enthusiasm, 
sincerity,  and  fear  of  failure;  because,  diffidently, 
tremulously,  they  do  their  best.  That  is  what  it  is 
to  be  young.  That  is  how  youth  works." 

He  lighted  at  one  of  the  candles  a  long  cigarette. 

"  The  Press  worked  like  that,"  he  said.  "  The 
Press  was  the  first  one-cent  newspaper  in  America. 
It  was  enterprising,  brave,  in  its  youth. 

"  And  success  came  to  it,  as  success  comes  to  all 
66 


John  Cave 

hard  and  sincere  and  modest  work,  and  success 
had  a  bad  effect  on  it.  The  work  became  less  hard, 
less  modest.  The  Press  drifted  into  old  age." 

He  sighed  philosophically  over  the  coffee  and 
tobacco. 

"  Rejuvenate  it,"  said  Gates. 

"If  I  only  could!"  he  murmured.  "But  that 
would  mean  a  clean  sweep  of  all  hands  —  an  im- 
possibility. For  the  owner  would  never  consent 
to  the  dismissal  of  all  those  old  fellows  who  worked 
their  hardest  for  him  in  their  youth ;  and,  if  he 
would  consent,  I  could  never  discharge  them,  for  I 
have  known  them  ten  years,  twenty  years,  since  I 
was  a  boy  fresh  from  school ;  and  I  could  no  more 
turn  them  out  than  I  could  turn  out  my  own  father." 

"  And  I  suppose  they  hold,"  said  Gates,  "  all  the 
good  places,  eh  ?  " 

"  All,  all,"  said  the  managing  editor. 

"  You  and  your  owner  are  in  a  strange  position," 
mused  the  poet.  "  To  do  right,  to  make  your  paper 
good  and  worthy  again,  it  is  needful  to  discharge 
all  your  old  men  —  to  ruin  all  your  old  friends." 

"  Yes,"  the  other  agreed.  "  The  head  of  a  news- 
paper, if  he  would  do  his  best,  must  be  as  cruel  as 
death.  He  must  be  always  on  the  watch,  and  at 
the  least  sign  of  weariness  or  of  age  in  a  man,  the 
man  must  go." 

"  He  must  drain  the  first  fine  youthful  enthusiasm 

67 


John  Cave 

from  his  men,"  said  Gates,  "  and  when  that  is  gone, 
he  must  throw  them  aside.  To  do  the  best  for  his 
paper,  he  must  do  the  worst  for  his  men.  To  do 
well,  he  must  do  ill." 

"  That  is  true  of  journalism,"  said  the  managing 
editor.  He  added,  "  It  is  true  of  other  things,  I 
fancy." 

"  It  is  true  of  no  good  thing,"  said  Gates. 

Excitedly  the  poet  pushed  back  his  slender  glass 
of  coffee. 

"  When  I  work  hard,"  he  said,  "  no  pain  results. 
The  harder  I  work,  the  happier  I  am,  and  the  better 
I  am.  And  my  work  harms  no  one.  On  the  con- 
trary, if  it  is  work  well  done,  it  makes  the  world 
happier  and  better." 

"  True,"  said  the  managing  editor. 

"  I  love  my  work,"  said  Gates. 

"  But  you  are  poor.  You  can't  make  a  living 
from  your  work." 

"  No  matter.  I  love  it.  It  rewards  me.  To 
achieve  in  a  line  a  certain  slow  and  mournful  music 
.  .  .  that  is  worth  striving  for  ...  it  is  happi- 
ness." 

John  walked  home  that  night  discontented.  He 
wished  that  he,  too,  was  a  faithful  servant  of  art, 
like  Gates.  A  great  distaste  for  his  newspaper 
work  seized  him. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  said  to  the  stars.  "  Why,  it  is 
68 


John  Cave 

nothing  but  gossip.  I  am  wasting  my  life  writing 
gossip."  And,  still  discontented,  he  did  not  go  to 
the  office  the  next  morning ;  but  buying  a  book,  he 
spent  the  day  in  this  cafe  and  that,  seated  in  a 
quiet  corner,  reading,  musing,  smoking. 

He  wanted  to  do  something  worth  while.  He 
was  tired  of  writing  gossip.  Only  he  did  not  know 
just  what  he  wanted  to  do. 

The  day  passed,  a  golden  alcoholic  dream,  and 
he  asked  himself  if  this  was  what  he  wanted  to  do 
—  to  shirk  always  the  task  at  hand,  and,  hidden  in  a 
tavern  from  the  taskmaster,  to  drink  his  life 
away? 

"  I  am  unreliable,"  he  murmured  as,  late  at  night, 
he  walked  homeward,  his  book  under  his  arm.  "  I 
lack  stability,"  he  said.  "  I  lack  ambition." 

For  a  while,  in  his  lonely  room,  he  sat  by  the 
window  in  the  dark.  "  I'll  come  to  a  bad  end," 
he  said. 

A  carriage  halted  across  the  way.  The  doors  of 
the  great  house  were  flung  open.  The  girl  has- 
tened in  her  white  garments  up  the  steps;  he  saw 
her  for  a  moment  in  the  clear  light  of  the  hall; 
she  stood  before  a  mirror,  laughing,  her  white 
hands  uplifted  to  her  yellow  hair.  Then  the  doors 
swung  to  again,  shutting  him  out  in  the  dark. 

"  If  I  knew  a  girl  like  that  .  .  ."  he  said.  "  If 
I  could  tell  my  fears  and  troubles  to  a  girl  like 

69 


John  Cave 

that.  ...  If  she  would  give  me  a  little  sympathy, 
a  little  counsel  .  .  ." 

He  sighed.  He  was  lonely  and  sad.  He  was 
afraid. 

"What  will  become  of  me?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  lake  was  ten  miles  long,  and  up  from  the 
water  on  every  side  the  mountains  rose.  The  moun- 
tains were  covered  with  hemlocks,  birches,  sweet- 
smelling  pines  —  forests  clean  and  perfumed  where- 
in dwelt  multitudes  of  deer.  Sometimes  a  deer, 
venturing  forth,  would  be  seen  upon  a  quiet  lane. 
John,  yesterday,  had  found  one  swimming  far  out, 
and  he  had  followed  it  in  his  canoe.  He  had  drawn 
near  it,  despite  its  terrified  zigzagging.  He  could 
have  touched  the  beautiful,  frantic  creature  with  his 
paddle. 

About  the  lake  there  was  something  mysterious 
and  frightening.  Shut  in  by  all  those  lofty  moun- 
tains, it  lay  at  their  feet  too  still,  too  deep,  too 
cold,  too  clear.  The  young  man,  skimming  in  his 
canoe  over  its  surface  of  glass,  would  grow  dizzy 
if  he  looked  down,  for  through  the  transparent 
water  he  could  see  the  bottom  to  a  depth  of  thirty 
or  forty  feet,  and  he  would  feel  as  though  there 
were  nothing  at  all  between  him  and  the  granite 
rocks,  grey  striped  with  white,  below  —  he  would 
feel  as  though  he  were  looking  over  a  precipice. 

71 


John  Cave 

But  only  in  a  few  places  the  bottom  of  the  lake 
could  thus  be  seen,  for  nearly  everywhere  were 
incredible  depths,  and  down  there,  it  was  said,  in 
water  incredibly  cold,  lived  fish  that,  if  they  ven- 
tured to  the  surface,  died. 

He  had  come  here  for  his  vacation  because  he 
had  heard  the  girl  came  here.  A  week  was  now 
past,  but,  though  he  saw  her  every  day,  he  had  not 
yet  met  her.  He  was  a  little  timid  about  meeting 
her.  He  feared  she  would  be  disappointed  in  him. 

Sometimes,  on  blazing  August  afternoons,  she 
passed  him  in  her  white  launch,  erect  at  the  wheel, 
her  hair  and  her  apparel  blown  backward  by  the 
wind,  he*  eyes  intent  on  something  far  off.  Some- 
times, in  the  still  splendour  of  the  sunset,  she  passed 
him  in  her  shining  canoe  of  sapphire  blue,  pad- 
dling with  the  lightest,  deftest  touch  through 
water  like  liquid  gold.  Sometimes  she  passed  him 
walking  in  the  quiet  lanes;  +!-r  birch-trees  bent  in 
an  arch  above  her  head,  the  sunlight  filtered  through 
the  leaves,  and,  her  spaniel  capering  beside  her, 
she  came  in  her  white  dress  down  a  path  dappled 
with  yellow  and  blue.  She  was  always  dressed  in 
white,  and  she  never  seemed  to  see  him  till  the 
last  moment.  At  the  last  moment,  lifting  her  pale 
lids,  she  would  meet  roguishly  the  gaze  wherein  he 
tried  to  express  the  most  respectful  admiration,  and 
the  suspicion  of  a  smile  would  flit  across  her  lips. 

72 


John  Cave 

He  met  her  at  last. 

He  sat  on  the  porch  of  the  post-office,  waiting 
for  the  mail.  On  the  lake  below  a  launch  appeared, 
hers.  She  reached  the  landing,  disembarked  with 
her  spaniel,  ascended  the  hill,  and  giving  him  a 
fluttering  glance,  perhaps  smiling  faintly  —  he  could 
never  be  quite  sure  —  she  entered  the  post-office,  a 
mail  bag  of  brown  leather  in  her  hand. 

Two  canoes,  one  red,  the  other  yellow,  rounded 
Garnet  Point  and  glided  shoreward  in  the  great 
sunshine  with  the  quiet  grace  of  swans.  From 
them  a  girl  and  three  young  men  disembarked, 
each  carrying  a  brown  leather  mail  bag. 

Four  launches,  a  noisy  motor  boat,  half-a-dozen 
canoes  and  a  yawl  one  by  one  discharged  at  the 
pier  young  men  and  girls:  a  hatless,  bare-armed, 
white-clad  crew  that  ascended  the  hill  with  noisy 
laughter,  swinging  mail  bags  of  brown  leather. 

These  young  people  filled  the  office  and  the 
porch.  Rich  cottagers'  sons  and  daughters,  comely 
and  brown  in  their  white  dress,  they  liked  to  come 
for  the  mail:  they  made  this  hour  the  gayest  of 
their  day :  and  though  the  mail  they  got  was  usually 
small  and  unimportant,  all  carried  large,  handsome 
bags,  in  which  it  was  odd  to  see  them  locking  the 
most  trivial  things  —  a  newspaper,  a  post  card,  an 
advertisement.  But  it  was  de  rigueur  at  Sunapee 
to  carry  a  mail  bag,  just  as  it  is  de  rigueur  at  Cape 

73 


John  Cave 

May  for  the  young  men,  after  the  bath,  to  dry  the 
girls'  hair  in  the  sun. 

Lonely  amongst  that  gay  band,  John  Cave  sat  on 
a  soap  box  reading.  The  young  girl's  gentle 
spaniel  dozed  at  his  feet.  A  superb  electric  launch 
appeared  off  Garnet  Point,  and  everyone  exclaimed : 

"  It's  Hogan."  ..."  The  diamond  king  is  com- 
ing." ..."  Look  at  Hogan,  the  liver  pill  man." 
..."  Hogan,  the  diamond  king." 

And  soon,  blazing  with  diamonds,  a  short,  stout 
young  man  ascended  the  hill,  a  white  bull  terrier 
at  his  heels. 

The  spaniel  awoke.  Running  forth,  it  frisked 
and  gambolled  about  the  terrier,  eager  for  a  frolic. 
The  terrier  stopped  and  stiffened.  And  suddenly 
the  peace  of  the  midsummer  morning  was  shattered 
with  hideous  cries. 

All  conversation  ceased,  and  all,  in  startled  si- 
lence, turned  in  unison  towards  that  formidable  up- 
roar. 

The  two  dogs  writhed  together.  They  did  not 
fight.  The  terrier  only  tried  to  get  a  grip.  The 
spaniel  only  held  its  head  very  high  and  howled. 

Smiling  nervously,  the  young  people  crowded 
about  the  dogs.  They  were  rather  amused,  for  they 
had  never  seen  a  bull  terrier  fighting. 

John  Cave  stood  on  his  soap  box.  The  spaniel 
angered  him.  He  thought  it  held  its  head  high  in 

74 


John  Cave 

air  because  it  was  beside  itself  with  fear.  He  did 
not  know  that  the  poor,  clamouring  little  dog,  wiser 
than  he,  threw  back  its  head  so  oddly,  even  rearing 
up  at  times  on  its  hind  legs,  in  order  to  prevent 
the  terrier  from  getting  a  throat  grip.  He  did  not 
know  that  the  spaniel's  life,  that  throat  grip  once 
secured,  would  not  have  been  worth  a  pinch  of 
roadside  dust. 

Suddenly  the  hideous  din  redoubled.  It  took  on 
a  tragic  note.  And  lo,  both  dogs  were  red  with 
blood. 

A  young  girl  ran  staggering  from  the  throng, 
her  hands  over  her  ears,  and  sank  in  a  soft  white 
heap  on  the  porch  floor. 

The  terrier  had  got  now  a  firm  hold  on  the 
spaniel's  foreleg  near  the  shoulder,  and,  all  the 
muscles  of  its  powerful  little  body  taut,  it  gnawed 
and  shook  the  flesh  with  revolting  and  incredible 
ferocity.  Blood  dripped  from  the  corners  of  its 
mouth  on  to  the  white  road.  Already  the  spaniel's 
leg  was  like  a  piece  of  raw  beef. 

Young  women  ran  to  and  fro  frantically.  "  Oh, 
stop  it !  Stop  it !  "  they  cried. 

Young  men  hurried  here  and  there  in  a  helpless 
way.  They  demanded  pepper,  ammonia,  lighted 
cigars.  One  of  them  charily  took  the  terrier  by 
the  collar  and  tried  to  drag  it  off;  but  it  held  fast, 
gnawing  and  shaking  the  wounded  leg  the  harder, 

75 


John  Cave 

and,  drag  it  where  he  would,  it  always  drew  th« 
hapless  spaniel  with  it. 

His  hands  red  and  wet,  the  young  man  desisted. 
His  face  was  pale,  and  as  he  rose  he  smiled  sadly. 
"  It's  no  use,"  he  said.  "  The  sooner  it's  all  over 
now  the  better." 

Another  young  man  appeared  with  a  stout  oaken 
stick.  He  had  a  confident  air.  "  Stand  back !  "  he 
cried.  And  he  gripped  the  stick  with  both  hands 
and  knitted  his  brows  in  a  capable  way,  like*  a  bats- 
man. A  sigh  of  relief,  of  hope,  went  up. 

Then  —  bang,  bang,  bang  —  a  rain  of  blows  de- 
scended. 

"  Don't  kill  him !  "  cried  a  voice.  "  He's  a  reg- 
istered dog." 

Bang,  bang,  bang  —  the  blows  fell  all  the  harder. 
But  it  was  difficult  to  hit  the  writhing  terrier.  As 
often  as  not  the  stick  lighted  on  the  spaniel  or  on 
the  ground.  And,  when  it  did  strike  true,  it  had 
no  other  effect  than  to  cause  the  terrier  to  gnaw 
and  shake  with  redoubled  fury  the  leg  that  now 
resembled  a  ragged  bone. 

The  spaniel  seemed  to  have  grown  faint  and 
limp.  Still,  though,  it  continued  to  hold  its  head 
high,  and  whenever  the  alert  terrier  dropped  for 
an  instant  the  leg  to  essay  the  throat,  it  still  es- 
caped by  rearing  up. 

This  spaniel,  whilst  slowly  being  killed  on  that 
76 


John  Cave 

beautiful  midsummer  morning,  wore  a  grotesque 
air  of  amazement  and  reproach  as  it  was  flung 
and  tossed  about.  And  continually  it  directed  to- 
wards the  delicious,  tender  and  gay  blue  of  the 
sky  its  horrid  cries,  its  sorrowful  and  tragic  prayer. 

The  oaken  stick  broke,  and  John  Cave  ran  into 
the  post-office  for  pepper.  Hither,  in  their  hor- 
ror, the  young  women  had  all  retreated.  They 
crouched  in  strained  attitudes,  weeping  hysterically, 
their  fingers  in  their  ears;  and  in  answer  to  their 
looks  of  inquiry  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  want  some  pepper,"  he  said. 

But  the  pepper  was  useless.  It  only  stimulated 
the  bull  terrier.  And  as  the  young  man  rose  from 
his  kneeling  posture,  Hogan,  scowling  in  his  face, 
cried : 

"  Do  you  want  to  blind  him  ?  " 

"  I'd  kill  him  if  I  had  a  gun,"  Cave  retorted. 
And  suddenly,  inflamed  with  rage,  he  clutched 
Hogan's  shoulders  with  both  hands  and  shook  him, 
shouting : 

"  Pull  off  that  dog  of  yours !  " 

Hogan  jerked  loose.  "  Well,  give  us  a  chance," 
he  said  sullenly. 

He  stooped  and  took  his  indomitable  terrier  by 
the  tail.  He  dragged  it,  and  the  spaniel  with  it, 
up  and  down  the  road.  He  lifted  it  high  in  air, 
and  the  spaniel,  too,  was  lifted  up.  He  swung 

77. 


John  Cave 

to  and  fro  that  hideous,  writhing,  howling  pen- 
dulum, from  which  dripped  blood. 

"  No  use,"  he  said  at  the  end.  There  was  al- 
most a  note  of  satisfaction  in  his  voice. 

The  druggist  pushed  through  the  crowd  with  a 
quart  bottle  of  ammonia  under  his  arm. 

"Don't  use  that  stuff,"  cried  Hogan. 

The  druggist  hesitated,  but  John  Cave  seized 
Hogan  and  flung  him  back  into  the  crowd. 

"  Get  the  hell  out  of  the  way ! " 

"Who's  got  a  gun?" 

"  What  kind  of  a  brute  are  you,  any  way,  to 
keep  such  a  dog? " 

Amid  all  that  hostility  Hogan  became  silent,  and 
the  druggist,  kneeling,  poured  his  ammonia  on  the 
terrier.  He  poured  the  entire  quart  on  its  head, 
into  its  mouth,  into  its  eyes.  All  gasped,  so  pow- 
erful were  the  fumes,  and  yet  their  sole  effect  on 
the  bulldog  was  to  make  it  gnaw  and  shake  the 
spaniel's  leg  more  savagely  than  ever. 

"  There's  no  hope,"  said  a  voice. 

"  Bernard's  gone  for  a  gun,"  said  another  voice. 

"  The  sooner  it's  over  the  better,"  said  a  third 
voice. 

"The  spaniel  began  it,"  shouted  Hogan. 

Without  cessation  the  spaniel  uttered  its  sickening 
cries.  Without  cessation  the  terrier  gnawed  and 
shook  it.  The  crowd  about  the  dogs  increased  con- 

78 


John  Cave 

tinually.     The  air  was  harsh  with  ammonia  fumes. 

The  spaniel's  luckless  owner  had  come  forth 
again.  She  stood,  very  pale,  with  her  back  to  the 
hideous  struggle,  her  eyes  closed,  and  her  fingers 
stopping  her  ears.  The  postmistress  patted  her 
shoulder,  then  cried  fiercely: 

"  Isn't  there  one  of  you  that's  man  enough  to  stop 
this?" 

"  It  was  the  spaniel's  fault,"  retorted  Hogan. 

John  took  up  a  block  of  granite  bigger  than  his 
head.  He  knelt  beside  the  dogs,  balancing  the 
stone  with  both  hands  opposite  his  face.  He 
waited,  watched  his  chance,  and  suddenly  brought 
down  the  heavy  granite  block  on  the  terrier's  back 
with  all  his  might. 

The  little  dog  fell  on  its  side  at  once.  Death 
was  instant. 

Congratulations  were  showered  on  the  young 
man,  but  Hogan,  stooping  to  take  up  the  dead 
dog,  cursed  him  roundly. 

"  You  brute,"  he  said,  "  I'll  get  even  with  you." 
He  put  the  little  white  terrier  under  his  arm  and 
set  off  down  the  hill.  "  What  a  brute,"  he  mut- 
tered, in  a  bitter  and  sad  tone. 

All  the  way  down  the  hill  he  kept  looking  back 
and  shouting  curses  at  John  Cave,  while  he  ab- 
sently hitched  up  higher  the  little,  limp,  white  bur- 
den under  his  arm. 

79 


John  Cave 

"  Please  let  me  thank  you,"  said  a  deep  voice. 

He  turned,  bowing,  and  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  My  name  is  Diana  Scarlett,"  she  said.  "  But 
where  is  poor  Peter?" 

"Peter?" 

"Yes,  Peter  —  my  spaniel." 

The  druggist  had  seen  Peter  starting  homeward : 
a  small,  black  object  on  the  long  white  road,  limp- 
ing slowly,  and  emitting  with  each  limp  a  little 
howl. 


80 


CHAPTER  IX 

DIANA  had  told  him  that  he  must  not  fail  to  go 
salmon  fishing  with  Jake,  an  old  man  who  lived 
alone  in  the  forest  by  the  lakeside. 

He  found  Jake  in  the  evening  at  his  cabin  door, 
seated  on  a  wooden  chair,  fanning  himself  vigor- 
ously with  a  palm-leaf  fan.  When  he  heard  foot- 
steps, the  old  man  cocked  his  head  in  a  woodland, 
deerlike  way,  and  through  the  leaves  his  eyes  met 
John's  in  a  friendly  look. 

"  Good  evenin',"  he  said,  in  a  powerful  and  ener- 
getic voice. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  John.  "  I'd  like  to  go 
salmon  fishing  with  you." 

"  Well,  I  guess  ye  kin,"  said  Jake.  "  But  I  start 
out  mighty  early.  I  start,  b'gorry,  at  four  o'clock. 
How  does  that  time  suit  yee  ?  " 

"Very  well,"  said  John.  "Suppose  I  go  to- 
morrow." 

"  All  right,"  said  Jake. 

In  the  morning  at  four,  though  the  sun  was  al- 
ready up,  in  the  shadow  of  the  mountains  the  lake 
lay  dark  and  still.  It  was  cold.  Everything  slept. 


John  Cave 

The  dew-drenched  pine  forests  exhaled  an  incred- 
ible fragrance. 

Jake's  boat  was  heavy,  wide,  flat-bottomed,  as 
comfortable  and  safe  as  a  parlour.  The  old  man 
put  John  in  the  stern,  took  the  oars,  and,  robust  as 
a  youth,  rowed  out  through  the  still,  dark  water  to 
the  Hedgehog. 

"  This  here's  my  buoy,"  he  said,  as  he  fastened 
the  boat  to  a  ramshackle  buoy  of  rotten  wood. 
"  It's  a  good  one,  I  tell  yee." 

He  bustled  about,  brisk  and  hopeful,  overhauling 
the  rods,  examining  the  worms  that  wriggled  in 
their  box  of  clean  moss. 

"  The  wind's  right,"  he  said.     "  The  moon's  right 

—  it's  the  new  of  the  moon.     There's  just  enough 
ripple.     As  like  as  not  ye'll  ketch  a   salmon  to- 
day." 

He  took  up  a  tiny  hook,  smaller  than  a  bent  pin, 
baited  it  with  a  shred  of  worm,  and  lowered  it 

—  down,    down,    down  —  ninety    feet,    a   hundred 
feet. 

Holding  the  line,  he  sat  expectantly  a  moment. 
Then: 

"  I've  got  him,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  him.  My 
first  smelt.  I'll  give  him  to  you." 

Up  from  those  cold  depths  Jake  drew  a  fish  the 
size  of  his  finger,  a  fish  as  silvery  as  a  new  half- 
dollar,  and  he  fastened  it,  alive,  on  John's  hook. 

82 


John  Cave 

"  Hurry,"  he  said.  "  Get  it  down  forty  or  fifty 
feet.  It  will  die  in  the  warm  water  up  here." 

John,  with  a  live  smelt  on  the  end  of  his  line, 
now  began  to  fish  for  salmon  in  fifty  feet  of  water. 

"  Does  Miss  Scarlett  ever  fish  with  you  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Does  she  ? "  said  Jake,  in  his  powerful,  em- 
phatic voice.  "  Well,  I  guess  she  does.  B'gorry, 
she's  a  good  friend  of  mine.  She  netted  a  ten- 
pound  salmon  for  me  once.  We  had  a  circus  with 
that  feller,  I  tell  yee.  It  took  us  two  hours  to  land 
him.  He  pulled  us  from  the  harbour  all  the  way 
to  Split  Rock." 

"Will  Miss  Scarlett  be  out  to-day?" 

"  B'gorry,"  said  Jake,  "  it's  hard  to  tell." 

The  old  man  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  boat  in  an 
arm-chair.  His  smelt  rod  was  on  his  left,  his  sal- 
mon rod  on  his  right.  A  pail  of  eggshells  stood 
between  his  legs,  and  every  little  while  he  would 
crush  a  handful  of  the  shells  and  throw  them  on 
the  water.  They  sank  slowly,  white  and  sparkling. 
He  said  they  attracted  the  fish. 

The  sun  rose  in  the  blue  sky.     The  lake  was  gay. 

"  Come,  little  fishes,  come  nibble  my  hook, 
I'll  be  captain  and  you  may  be  cook," 

Jake  sang.     He  was  an  ardent  fisherman.     When 
he  caught  two  smelt  in  succession,  he  said :     "  I 

83 


John  Cave 

tell  yee,  where  there's  smelt  there's  bound  to  be 
salmon."  And  then,  when  he  got  no  smelt  for  an 
hour  or  more  — "  There's  salmon  below  here,"  he 
said.  "  That's  what  has  scared  the  smelt  away." 

"  Do  you  work  in  the  winter  ?  "  said  John. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  do,"  the  old  man  answered. 
"  I'm  janitor  of  the  Newport  town  hall.  B'gorry, 
I've  been  janitor  there  for  twenty-seven  years.  I 
understand  janitorship,  I  tell  yee.  I  could  go  to 
Boston  or  New  York  and  make  big  money." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  fishing  here  ?  " 

"Here  in  this  lake?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  sir,  I've  been  a-fishin'  here  in  this  lake 
forty-seven  years." 

Suddenly  the  old  man  became  rigid.  He  frowned 
intently  at  his  lancewood  rod,  the  tip  of  which 
moved  up  and  down  in  a  slow,  odd  way,  and  his 
tongue  protruded. 

The  tip  bobbed  smartly,  and  with  a  mighty  jerk 
Jake  rose  to  his  feet.  The  reel  hummed.  The 
rod  bent  in  a  circle.  With  the  spry  movements  of 
a  boy  the  old  man  hastened  to  the  bow  and  set  the 
boat  loose  from  its  fastening. 

The  boat  moved  southward,  towed  by  the  fish 
upon  Jake's  line.  This  fish,  for  two  hours,  keeping 
deep  down,  fought.  It  carried  the  boat  three  miles. 
Then,  exhausted,  it  came  to  the  surface,  big- 


John  Cave 

shouldered,  bull-like,  sulky,  and  finally  Jake  netted 
it  —  a  fifteen-pound  salmon. 

John  caught  a  salmon  late  in  the  afternoon.  His 
was  a  smaller  fish.  It  came  to  the  surface  at  once, 
and  the  warm  water  there  soon  tired  it.  In  twenty 
minutes  it  was  landed. 

"  When  they  come  up,  ye  see,"  said  Jake,  "  they're 
done  for.  It's  too  hot  for  'em.  For,  b'gorry, 
they're  used  to  water  of  thirty  degrees.  It's  colder 
than  ice  down  there.  I  tell  yee,  it's  so  cold  that 
when  a  drowned  person  once  sinks  down  the  body 
don't  never  rise  ag'in." 

"  Is  this  land-locked  salmon  good  eating  ?  " 

"  Good-eatin'  ?  Well,  I  guess  'tis.  It's  rich  as 
an  old  Jew." 

The  sky  was  unspeakably  brilliant.  The  world 
was  as  clean  and  sweet  as  a  flower.  Here  and 
there  vast  shadows,  the  shadows  of  great  moun- 
tains, lay  upon  the  sun-drenched  landscape. 

A  canoe  rounded  the  point,  guided  by  a  girl  in 
white.  It  drew  near  in  a  light  and  silent  way; 
and  the  girl  waved  her  hand  and  called: 

"What  luck?" 

"  Two  salmon,"  John  shouted. 

She  ran  the  canoe  alongside  skilfully,  and  John 
took  hold  of  the  gunwale.  He  asked  her  if  he  might 
get  in.  She  laughed  and  assented,  and  he  boarded 
the  slim  craft  clumsily,  taking  the  bow  seat. 

85 


John  Cave 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  to  Jake. 

"  Good-bye,"  Jake  answered,  in  a  sullen  voice. 

The  canoe  swam  shoreward,  gliding  slowly 
through  the  crystal  water,  over  a  bottom  of  snow- 
white  sand. 

"  How  is  Peter  ?  "  said  the  young  man. 

"  He  will  pull  through,"  Diana  answered.  "  His 
eyes  are  hurt,  and  he  is  horribly  torn  in  a  half- 
dozen  places.  But  the  doctor  says  he  will  pull 
through." 

"You  paddle  beautifully." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  But  then  I  have  canoed  on 
Sunapee  ever  since  I  was  a  little  child.  How  do 
you  like  it  here  ?  " 

"  I  love  it  here,"  said  he.  "  It  is  such  a  clean 
country  —  such  a  wild,  clean,  pure  country." 

"  You  will  be  sorry  to  go  back,  then  ?  " 

"Sorry?    Rather!" 

"  You  like  your  work,  though  ?  " 

"Like  it?    I  hate  it." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  don't  get  on  well,  I  suppose." 

"  Are  you  lazy  ?  "  she  asked  gravely. 

He  laughed.     "  Dear  knows !  " 

The  canoe  floated  out  of  the  shade  into  an  open 
space.  A  cool  air  was  blowing.  Sunbeams,  strik- 
ing through  the  shallows,  danced  on  the  bottom  of 
white  sand  like  gold  coins.  The  water  rippled  over 

86 


John  Cave 

this  dimpled,  snowy  sand.  The  canoe  bobbed  gaily 
on  the  little  waves. 

"  I  must  go  in,"  said  Diana. 

"  Oh,  must  you  go  in  ?  " 

They  drew  near  her  landing  slowly. 

"  It  was  odd  to  meet  you  here,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  remember  seeing  me  in  town  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  it  isn't  odd 
that  I  am  here.  I  came  here  because  I  knew  that 
you  were  here." 

She  made  an  exclamation.  Was  it  of  annoyance? 
Was  it  of  surprise?  He  could  not  tell. 

"  One  of  the  maids  where  I  live  told  me  that 
you  came  here  in  the  summer,"  he  said.  "  So  I 
came  here  in  the  hope  of  meeting  you." 

His  tone  was  a  little  bitter.  He  feared  that  she 
did  not  like  him,  that  it  displeased  her  to  hear  him 
speak  in  this  way. 

But  after  he  had  helped  her  out  of  the  canoe 
she  looked  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  and  her 
beautiful  eyes  met  his  in  a  timid  questioning. 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  and  see  me,"  she  said. 

"  To  come  will  make  me  happy,"  said  the  young 
man. 


CHAPTER  X 

As  he  sat  on  the  hotel  piazza  with  his  cigarette 
that  night,  delicate  sensations  of  delight  rippled 
through  his  being.  He  frit  again  upon  him  Diana's 
timid  and  questioning  glance.  Her  glance  had  suf- 
fused him  with  a  languid,  poetic,  somewhat  mourn- 
ful happiness.  How  pathetically  humble,  pathetic- 
ally in  his  power,  the  young  girl  had  seemed.  And 
afterwards  there  had  ensued  a  long  silence.  Then, 
when  she  invited  him  to  come  and  see  her,  she  had 
heaved  a  little  sigh. 

Lighting  a  fresh  cigarette,  he  smiled.  He  looked 
up  at  the  soft  splendour  of  the  starry  August  sky, 
and  his  smile  was  the  complacent  smile,  the  silly 
and  despicable  smile,  of  the  male  who  has  made  a 
conquest.  He  perceived  that  he  would  have  a 
pleasant  time  here  from  now  on. 

He  came  down  beaming  the  next  morning,  clad 
for  the  first  time  in  his  new  white  flannels.  He  ate 
an  even  heartier  breakfast  than  usual  —  straw- 
berries, porridge,  ham  and  eggs,  buckwheat  cakes, 
coffee,  and,  to  conclude,  two  doughnuts,  huge  and 
light  and  hot,  which  he  dipped  in  a  sauce  of  melted 

88 


John  Cave 

maple  sugar.  At  the  end,  puffing  a  little,  he  rose, 
loosened  his  belt,  boarded  his  canoe,  and  paddled 
gaily,  if  a  little  heavily,  in  the  direction  of  Diana's 
cottage. 

But  a  mile  this  side  of  her  cottage  he  passed  the 
young  girl.  She  sat  in  a  handsome  launch  that, 
under  the  direction  of  a  gigantic  youth  in  white, 
shot  by  him  like  the  wind.  John  examined  the 
youth  in  white  carefully.  With  rolled-up  sleeves 
and  shirt  open  at  the  neck  he  stood  bareheaded  at 
the  wheel,  his  wind-tossed  yellow  hair  glittering 
in  the  sun.  He  was  a  cross  between  a  Hercules 
and  an  Apollo,  and  as  John,  paddling  awkwardly, 
studied  him,  no  vestige  of  last  night's  conquering 
and  complacent  smile  lingered  on  the  journalist's 
compressed  lips. 

He  returned  to  the  hotel.  He  bought  a  news- 
paper, and  passed  the  morning  on  the  piazza,  sur- 
rounded by  old  ladies  in  rocking-chairs.  He  read 
but  little.  For  the  most  part  he  gazed,  lost  in 
thought,  at  the  mountains,  a  gloomy  and  perplexed 
look  on  his  face. 

In  the  afternoon,  with  a  magazine,  he  resumed 
his  place  among  the  old  ladies  again.  Suddenly 
he  heard  a  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  Diana  and  the 
yellow-haired  youth  cantered  by  on  beautiful  horses, 
in  superb  riding  clothes,  a  groom  in  the  rear  accent- 
ing all  that  elegance. 

89 


John  Cave 

"  Shirley  Brooke,"  he  heard  an  old  lady  say. 
"  The  broker's  son,  you  know.  Rich  ?  Well !  " 

Behind  his  magazine  he  sneered  at  his  folly.  "  I 
have  been  a  fool,"  he  thought.  "  What  did  I  hope 
for?  Why  did  I  come  here?  Fool,  fool,  fool!  " 


90 


CHAPTER  XI 


"  You  should  have  good  luck  to-day,  miss,"  said 
the  coachman.  "  Rain  always  brings  the  animals 
down." 

And  Diana  turned  and  explained  to  John  that 
visitors  to  the  great  preserve  sometimes  failed  to 
see  a  single  head  of  game.  Her  manner  was  ex- 
traordinarily kind  and  gentle.  She  seemed  vaguely 
to  know  that  he  was  hurt  and  sore;  she  seemed 
to  want  to  console  him  for  something.  And  smil- 
ing back  at  the  young  man,  she  said  that  though 
there  were  thousands  of  buffalo,  deer,  elk  and  wild 
boar,  the  preserve  was  many  miles  in  extent,  and 
the  herds  in  dry  weather  kept  to  the  distant  forests 
of  the  mountain  heights,  where  they  were  inaccessi- 
ble to  the  casual  visitor.  The  casual  visitor  could 
only  hope  to  see  them  when  they  descended,  as 
they  did  after  rain,  to  the  meadows  that  lay  on 
either  side  the  creek. 

She  sat  on  the  front  seat  with  the  coachman; 
John  was  with  Mrs.  Scarlett  behind  her,  and 
Shirley  Brooke  and  her  cousin,  young  Reverdy 
Scarlett,  occupied  the  rear  seat  of  the  long  buck- 
board. 

91 


John  Cave 

It  had  rained  all  night,  but  the  morning  was 
brilliant.  The  sky  seemed  to  have  been  washed, 
it  sparkled  with  so  fresh  and  pure  a  blue.  The 
sweet  air  was  almost  frosty,  the  damp  pine  woods 
exhaled  in  the  August  sun  an  odour  exquisite  and 
exhilarating,  and,  focussed  to  the  last  detail,  the 
grey  mountain  peaks  and  crags  stood  out  with  an 
amazing  sharpness. 

The  buckboard  rocked  on  the  rough"  mountain 
road.  The  landscape  grew  wilder  and  lonelier. 
Not  more  than  twice  or  thrice  in  an  hour  would 
they  see  a  house,  and  these  rare  houses  looked 
ridiculously  small,  smaller  than  toys,  amid  the 
tumbled  chaos  of  giant  mountains.  It  was  noon 
before  they  gained  the  park. 

The  park,  from  without,  was  nothing  but  a 
mountain  forest.  There  was  a  wooden  gate  in 
the  tall  fence  of  barbed  wire,  and  beside  the  gate 
stood  a  little  frame  farmhouse. 

A  woman  from  the  farm  admitted  them,  and 
they  took  a  rough  forest  road.  Hardly  a  minute 
had  passed  before  Mrs.  Scarlett  cried,  "  Oh,  look !  " 
and  three  beautiful  deer,  yellow  as  gold,  burst 
from  the  green  gloom  of  the  thicket,  crossed  the 
road  with  incredibly  long,  light  leaps,  and  in  an 
instant  disappeared  in  the  thicket  on  the  other  side. 

The  road  turned,  passing  a  dead  pine  wood. 
The  slender  and  denuded  trees  stood  erect  and  still 

92 


John  Cave 

and  grey.  The  ground  was  covered  with  a  grey 
carpet  of  pine  needles.  Through  the  interlaced  and 
bare  boughs  not  a  breath  of  air,  not  a  ray  of  sun- 
light, ever  penetrated.  Strangely  beautiful  in  its 
clean,  sad  silence  was  this  pine  wood,  dead  and 
grey,  with  its  innumerable  slim,  straight  trunks 
ascending  like  columns  in  a  dim  cathedral. 

The  road  turned  again,  and  in  a  green  and  sun- 
drenched meadow,  in  the  shadow  of  a  birch,  they 
saw  a  doe  standing  with  two  little  fawns.  The 
animals,  in  a  pose  of  wild  and  timid  grace,  allowed 
the  carriage  to  come  so  near  that  the  excursionists 
saw  their  soft,  frightened  eyes,  their  sleek  coats  of 
pale  yellow,  their  tails,  mere  tufts  of  white  cotton : 
then,  with  great,  free  leaps,  they  fled. 

Diana  turned  to  John  and  smiled. 

"  How  clean  and  sweet  they  are,"  she  said. 

The  buckboard  drew  up  beside  a  spring,  and, 
seated  on  the  perfumed  grass  of  a  wind-swept 
knoll,  their  lunch  spread  on  a  granite  boulder,  they 
ate  and  drank  with  a  good  appetite.  Then  the 
ladies  went  for  a  little  walk,  and  the  young  men, 
lighting  their  cigarettes,  sprawled  on  the  turf,  and 
boasted  and  argued. 

The  ladies  returned,  the  coachman  brought  up 
the  buckboard,  and  the  excursionists  followed  once 
more  the  rough  forest  trail.  Reverdy  and  Shirley 
continued  to  argue  and  boast  on  the  back  seat,  but 

93 


John  Cave 

John,  seated  now  beside  Diana,  listened  no 
longer. 

The  buckboard  made  a  sharp  turn,  and  the  horses 
reared  and  halted.  A  little  more,  and  they  would 
have  fallen  on  a  huge  buffalo  cow  that  lay  in  the 
road.  On  all  sides  were  buffaloes,  a  herd  of  a 
hundred  or  more.  The  meadow  was  black  with 
them.  And  they  were  not  at  all  afraid.  They 
looked  at  the  carriage  with  dull  eyes,  and  the  cow 
in  the  road  rose  lazily. 

"  Isn't  it  dangerous  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Scarlett. 

The  coachman  laughed.  "  Oh,  no,  ma'am ; 
there's  no  danger,"  he  said. 

The  buckboard  advanced  slowly.  The  herd,  for 
some  reason,  closed  in  behind  and  followed  it. 

"  Faster,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Scarlett.  "  These 
brutes  make  me  nervous." 

But  there  was  another  turn,  and  again  the  horses 
stopped  and  reared,  and  Mrs.  Scarlett  screamed 
faintly.  This  time  the  road  was  blocked  by  some 
twenty  or  thirty  buffaloes,  standing  and  lying,  huge, 
stolid,  formidable  brutes. 

"  We'd  better  turn  back,"  said  Reverdy  Scarlett, 
in  a  strange  voice. 

"  I'm  going  to  jump  out,"  said  Mrs.  Scarlett, 
clasping  the  coachman's  arm. 

"  Sit  still,  madam,"  said  the  coachman.  He  was 
smiling,  a  puzzled  smile.  The  buffaloes,  not  more 

94 


John  Cave 

than  a  dozen  feet  ahead,  made  no  movement  to 
clear  the  way;  they  did  not  even  deign  to  look  at 
the  excursionists. 

"  Turn  back,"  repeated  Reverdy.  And  then, 
glancing  behind  him,  the  young  man  muttered: 
"  Heavens,  we  can't  turn  back !  " 

For  the  buffaloes  that  they  had  passed  had  closed 
in  on  them  more  closely,  blocking  the  roadway  in 
the  rear.  The  buffaloes  in  front  continued  motion- 
less. And  from  behind,  now  and  then,  a  great 
beast  swaggered  past  with  sullen  looks. 

They  were  surrounded  by  buffaloes.  They  could 
reach  out  on  every  side  and  touch  a  buffalo.  It 
was  a  novel  experience.  It  was  even  alarming. 

"  I  hardly  know  .  .  ."  said  the  coachman,  smiling 
his  puzzled  smile.  "  They  ain't  supposed  to  be 
dangerous  except  in  the  spring."  He  flicked  the 
horses,  but  they  backed  and  reared,  refusing  to  ad- 
vance. 

And  there  they  sat,  surrounded  by  buffaloes. 

"  Well,"  said  Diana,  "  what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

The  coachman,  busy  with  his  frightened  horses, 
stammered : 

"  I  hardly  know  if  .  .  ." 

"  Shall  we  get  out  and  go  for  them  ? "  asked 
Shirley  Brooke  tremulously. 

"  You  don't  want  to  make  'em  mad,"  said  the 
coachman. 

95 


John  Cave 

"  Oh,  dear,  we  must  do  something,"  whimpered 
Mrs.  Scarlett. 

John  Cave,  pale  and  silent,  sat  beside  Diana,  lost 
in  thought.  Here  was  a  superb  chance  for  him 
to  distinguish  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  he 
loved ;  but  had  he  the  courage  to  grasp  this  chance  ? 
He  pondered  the  question  cautiously.  Would  the 
buffaloes,  if  he  rushed  upon  them  yelling,  disperse? 
.  .  .  Suppose,  instead  of  dispersing,  they  attacked 
him,  gored  and  trampled  him  to  death?  Well,  it 
would  be  better  to  die  like  that  than  to  turn  and 
run.  .  .  .  But  he  knew  that  he  would  turn  and  run 
at  the  first  sign  of  opposition  on  the  buffaloes'  part. 
Yes,  in  fancy  he  saw  himself  running  frantically, 
his  coat-tails  streamed  out  level  in  the  wind,  and 
with  a  sad  and  contemptuous  smile  Diana  watched 
him  disappear  over  the  hill. 

Suddenly  he  leaped  from  the  buckboard  and 
rushed  at  the  buffaloes  as  an  angry  gardener  rushes 
at  a  flock  of  trespassing  hens. 

"  Hi !  "  he  shouted,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  waving 
his  arms,  darting  this  way  and  that.  "  Hi !  Gzt 
out!  Scoot!" 

He  was  utterly  terrified.  But  he  advanced 
bravely. 

"Hi!    Hi!" 

The  sleepy  brutes  in  front,  rising  slowly,  lum- 
bered off  at  a  heavy  trot.  A  black  bull  glared  at 

96 


John  Cave 

the  young  man,  lowered  his  head,  pawed  the  ground ; 
but  John  rushed  at  him  with  a  wild  yell,  and  he, 
too,  sullenly  took  to  his  heels. 

"  Hi !  Scoot !  "  they  all  shouted  together  from 
the  buckboard.  And  faster  and  faster  the  buffaloes 
retreated.  Soon  not  one  was  to  be  seen. 


Diana  and  John,  on  the  return,  got  out  at  the 
foot  of  the  Newport  hill  to  relieve  the  tired  horses. 
Alone  at  last,  they  both  were  silent.  But  they 
walked  slowly,  and  the  carriage  forged  ahead. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  town  to-morrow,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  You  must  come  and  see  me  in  town,"  said  she. 

Her  walk  had  a  free  and  gentle  grace.  Her 
hair  glittered  in  the  sunshine  like  gold  thread.  The 
delicate  regularity  of  her  profile  gave  her  a  proud, 
contemptuous  air. 

At  a  steep  place  carpeted  with  pine  needles  he 
took  her  hand  to  help  her.  Afterwards,  the  car- 
riage having  turned  a  bend,  he  did  not  release  her 
hand. 

She  made  no  effort  to  withdraw  it.  She  con- 
tinued to  advance  in  silence,  an  inscrutable  look 
in  her  clear  eyes. 

"  Diana,"  he  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  I  have 
told  you  why  I  came  to  Sunapee." 

97, 


John  Cave 

She  gave  him  a  swift,  timid  glance.  "  Are  you 
glad  you  came  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  are.     Are  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

He  halted  before  her.  "  Dearest,  dearest,"  he 
murmured.  Bending  over  her,  he  took  her  face 
in  his  hands. 

As  frankly  as  a  child  she  gave  him  her  fresh  lips. 

He  was  profoundly  moved.  He  felt  vile  and 
coarse  beside  this  beautiful  girl.  How  strange,  how 
sad,  that  she  should  stoop  to  one  like  him. 

But  in  the  soil  of  his  polluted  youth  such  cred- 
itable thoughts  soon  died.  His  humble  look  was 
succeeded  by  the  complacent  smile  of  conquest. 
Then,  as  he  walked  on  beside  Diana  again,  he  be- 
gan to  find  the  silence  awkward.  He  held  her 
hand.  Should  he  release  it?  ...  or  what?  And 
he  began  to  wonder  if  he  should  go  further.  .  .  . 
Did  she  desire  him  to  go  further?  ...  He  directed 
on  the  pure,  grave  profile  of  the  young  girl  a  side- 
long glance  of  vile  suspicion. 

And  Diana,  without  looking  at  him,  said,  as  if 
in  answer  to  his  thoughts: 

"  No  one  ever  kissed  me  before." 

His  face  cleared.  The  absurdity  of  his  sus- 
picions! As  though  one  should  suspect  a  lily  or  a 
rose !  Releasing  her  hand,  he  stammered : 

"  Some  things  are  very  difficult  to  say.  .  .  .  But 
98 


John  Cave 

when  one  has  a  salary  so  small  that  it  will  hardly 
support  one's  self,  and  when  one  must  sleep  all  day 
and  work  all  night  .  .  .  why,  one  is  hardly  .  .  . 
hardly  in  a  position  to  ...  a  position  to  .  .  ." 

As  he  faltered,  blushing  furiously,  the  young 
girl  turned  to  him  with  a  serene  smile. 

"  But  there  is  always  hope,"  she  said. 

She  smiled  serenely,  but  on  her  cheek  glistened 
a  tear.  Not  thus,  perhaps,  had  she  dreamed  her 
lover  would  come  to  her:  a  youth  with  polluted 
eyes,  extending  empty  hands  too  weak  for  her  sup- 
port, and  at  the  same  time  searching  her  with 
glances  of  vile  suspicion. 


99 


CHAPTER  XII 

PETER  TO  JOHN  CAVE 

MY  DEAR  BENEFACTOR, —  I  know  you  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  that  my  wounds  are  nearly  healed. 
Even  from  the  foreleg,  which  suffered  most,  the 
soreness  is  now  gone.  But  the  limp  remains. 

I  send  you  an  ash-tray  of  birch  bark  that  my 
mistress  made  for  you  at  my  request. 

Hoping  to  see  you  often  on  my  return  to  town, 
I  will  now  close.  PETER. 

(Dictated.) 

JOHN  CAVE  TO  DIANA  SCARLETT 

I  am  sitting  by  the  window  from  which,  so  often, 
I  saw  you  last  winter.  I  did  not  dare  to  hope  then 
that  you  would  ever  be  my  friend. 

You  ask  me  what  I  do  and  what  I  think.  Such 
questions  are  difficult  to  answer.  However 

My  breakfast  is  not  over  till  eleven.  After 
breakfast,  with  newspapers  and  a  book,  I  sit  in  the 
Park  an  hour  or  two. 

At  one,  a  little  nervous,  I  go  to  the  office. 

I  am  always  worried  over  my  coming  assignment. 
100 


John  Cave 

Will  it  be  a  good,  amusing  assignment,  or  a  stwpid 
one?  Usually,  thanks  to  the  managing  editor,  it  is 
good,  and  in  gathering  my  facts  and  in  writing  a 
column  or  a  column  and  a  half  of  copy  the  afternoon 
and  evening  pass. 

Pleasantly  and  swiftly  they  pass,  and  at  half-past 
nine  or  ten  my  work  is  done.  Now,  till  midnight,  I 
am  idle.  But  what  is  there  to  do?  It  is  too  late 
for  the  theatres,  too  late  to  go  and  see  anyone  (if  I 
knew  anyone  to  go  and  see),  and  so,  since  I  must  be 
amused,  I  do  the  thing  that  is  cheapest,  handiest; 
and  with  two  or  three  other  men  from  the  office  I 
sit  in  a  cafe,  smoking,  talking,  drinking. 

We  have  a  good  time  in  the  cafe.  We  talk  of 
serious  things  —  the  books  we  like,  the  plays  we 
like,  our  future  work,  our  ambitions  —  and,  our 
brains  stimulated  by  alcohol,  we  think  and  speak 
freely  and  profoundly  —  or,  at  least,  we  fancy  we 
do  —  though  to  an  outsider  it  might  seem  that  we 
are  only  noisy  braggarts. 

As  to  that  I  can't  say,  but  at  any  rate  our  long 
hours  in  the  cafe  would  do  us  no  harm  were  it  not 
that,  the  next  morning,  we  awake  unref  reshed.  The 
head  aches  a  little,  the  eyes  smart,  the  mind  is 
fatigued  and  sad:  one  is  really  fit  for  nothing  but 
to  spend  the  day  in  bed. 

And  sometimes  that  is  what  I  do.  The  morning 
after  one  of  these  splendid  evenings,  evenings  that 
101 


John  Cave 

we  end  almost  reverently,  with  deep  stirrings  of  joy 
and  gratitude,  separating  as  priests  separate  at  the 
close  of  a  successful  rite,  I  send  word  to  the  office 
that  I  am  ill,  and  all  day  I  doze  in  my  room.  It  is 
shameful  —  I  am  paid  for  this  idleness  —  I  am  a 
thief. 

And  like  a  thief  I  hide  in  my  room,  afraid  to  go 
out  lest  some  Press  man  see  me.  And  the  next  day, 
when  I  report  for  work  again,  I  am  hideously 
frightened  and  abased;  I  am  convinced  that,  if  the 
cause  of  my  absence  is  not  known,  it  is  at  least  sus- 
pected. 

Sometimes,  too,  our  evenings  at  the  cafe  do  not 
terminate  in  a  quiet  dispersal  at  one  o'clock;  but 
from  weak  we  turn  to  strong  drinks,  and  the  night 
grows  wild  and  confused,  and  one  awakes  in  the 
morning,  as  like  as  not,  with  only  thirty  or  forty 
cents  to  see  one  through  the  balance  of  the  week. 
Then,  day  after  day,  borrowing  from  this  man  to 
buy  one's  luncheon,  from  that  man  to  buy  one's  din- 
ner, obliged  to  tell  various  small  creditors  that  one 
has  not  the  dollar  or  two  necessary  to  settle  their 
trifling  accounts.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  can  I  still  continue 
in  this  life  when  I  suffer  so  horribly  the  humiliation 
of  it? 

Now,  perhaps,  you  know  me  better.  I  want  you, 
if  you  wish  it,  to  know  me  thoroughly.  But  maybe, 

102 


John  Cave 

after  this  frank  letter,  you  will  decide  that  you  do 
not  want  to  know  me  at  all.  J.  C. 

DIANA!  SCARLETT  TO  JOHN  CAVE 

MY  DEAR  JOHN, —  I  have  thought  about  your  let- 
ter a  great  deal.  You  tell  me  that  you  are  some- 
times happy  and  sometimes  wretched.  You  are 
wretched  when  you  are  doing  things  that  are  wrong 
—  drinking  and  all  that  —  and  you  are  happy  when 
you  are  doing  what  is  right:  you  are  happy  when 
you  are  at  work. 

I  am  sure  you  could  be  always  happy. 

At  night,  after  you  are  done  at  The  Press,  instead 
of  talking  about  your  future  and  your  ambitions, 
why  don't  you  go  home  and  work  ? 

Good-bye.  Shirley  is  whistling  for  me  from  his 
launch.  DIANA  SCARLETT. 

JOHN  CAVE  TO  DIANA  SCARLETT 

DEAR  DIANA, —  For  a  month  I  have  drunk  noth- 
ing, and  delightful  is  the  sense  of  freedom  that  this 
abstinence  gives.  I  am  like  a  prisoner  released 
from  his  chains. 

Drinking:  the  infernal  practice  was  always  on 
my  mind.  Every  morning,  from  the  moment  I  left 
home,  I  worried  over  how  much  I  would  drink  be- 
fore returning,  when  I  would  take  my  first  drink, 
103 


John  Cave 

whether  or  no  I  might  get  through  the  day  without 
drinking  at  all.  Like  a  chain,  the  habit  continually 
galled  me.  And  now  I  am  free. 

Mentally  I  have  this  delightful  sense  of  freedom, 
and  physically  I  abound  in  health  and  high  spirits, 
like  an  animal.  I  eat  so  well,  I  sleep  so  well,  I  get 
up  in  the  morning  so  refreshed  and  happy  —  thanks 
to  you. 

Assuredly  I  don't  hope  to  continue  a  journalist 
for  ever.  I  want  to  write  plays.  How  many  plays 
I  have  commenced!  But  I  have  never  so  much  as 
finished  a  one-act  curtain  raiser. 

But  now  I  am  back  again  at  a  play  I  began  three 
years  ago.  I  worked  two  mornings  and  two  even- 
ings on  it  this  week.  A  playwright  will  sometimes 
make  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  from  one  suc- 
cess. 

When  I  was  a  boy  at  school  I  continually  distin- 
guished myself.  As  soon  a  I  became  a  young  man, 
I  continually  disgraced  myself. 

You  see,  as  a  boy,  I  lived  in  intimate  relation- 
ship with  my  teachers.  I  liked  and  respected  these 
teachers ;  they  liked  and  respected  me ;  and  in  order 
to  please  them,  in  order  to  retain  their  good  opinion, 
I  worked  hard.  I  hated  work,  but  it  was  neces- 
sary :  otherwise  my  teachers  would  be  grieved. 

But  as  a  young  man  I  have  had  no  friends  of  this 
kind.  My  friends  have  been  young  like  me,  and 
104 


John  Cave 

their  influence  has  led  me  towards  dissipation  rather 
than  towards  work.  Because  no  one  cared  whether 
I  worked  or  not,  I  stopped  working. 

You  now  stand  in  the  place  of  one  of  those  teach- 
ers of  my  boyhood.  If  I  can  but  be  sure  that  you 
care,  I  will  work  my  very  hardest.  To  please  you, 
I  will  work  as  I  did  when  a  little  chap.  But  do  you 
care?  J.  C. 

DIANA  SCARLETT  TO  JOHN  CAVE 

DEAR  JOHN, —  This  is  regatta  week,  and  you 
mustn't  expect  a  letter  from  me.  But  of  course  I 
care.  Now  I  must  dress  for  the  canoe  tilts. 

DIANA. 


105 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PRUDENCE,  the  maid  told  him,  was  at  home.  He 
had  not  seen  her  for  two  months,  and,  seated  in  a 
low  praying-chair  from  a  chapel  of  Finistere,  he 
dreamily  regarded  the  beauty  of  her  library. 

The  walls  were  panelled  to  the  ceiling  in  time- 
blackened  oak  carved  in  a  Gothic  pattern.  The 
chairs,  all  old,  all  of  dark  wood  richly  sculptured, 
were  upholstered  in  cherry-coloured  satin.  In  the 
well-waxed  floor  one  could  see  one's  face  as  in  the 
rosewood  surface  of  a  grand  piano,  and  beautiful 
beyond  words  on  this  dark  floor  were  the  pale 
Persian  rugs  with  their  blended  hues  of  cream,  old 
rose,  jade  green. 

"  It  was  time  you  came  to  see  me,"  said  a  clear 
young  voice,  and  Prudence,  in  street  dress,  gave  him 
her  hand  gaily. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  he.  He  noted  absently  her  pal- 
lor. 

"'Oh,  well'!    Well,  what?" 

"  You  didn't  care." 

"  Of  course  I  cared." 

"  When  you  wrote  and  asked  me  for  those  stories, 
you  didn't  press  me  very  hard  to  come." 
106 


John  Cave 

"  I  wanted  to  surprise  you,"  she  said  softly.  She 
put  her  hands  to  her  hat,  withdrawing  the  long  gold 
pins,  and  in  this  charming  attitude  she  paused  and 
smiled. 

"  A  surprise,  eh  ?  "  He  concealed  a  yawn  behind 
his  hand. 

"  Yes.     A  surprise." 

She  set  a  huge  tin  case  of  cigarettes  before  him, 
Egyptian  cigarettes,  gold-tipped,  aromatic,  and  as 
large  as  small  cigars. 

"  Would  you  mind,"  he  faltered,  "  giving  me  a 
drink,  too?" 

Silently,  a  little  reproachfully,  she  got  out  the 
whisky  and  soda-water.  He  drank  of  the  ex- 
hilarating mixture,  and  a  warm  wave  of  physical 
well-being,  almost  of  happiness,  flowed  through  his 
veins  sluggish  and  foul  from  a  week's  drunkenness. 
He  fell  into  a  muse.  .  .  . 

Diana  had  broken  with  him  on  account  of  his 
jealousy.  He  had  suspected  that  she  took  an  actual 
delight  in  making  him  jealous.  But  he  had  been 
wrong  there.  No  girl,  she  had  assured  him,  was 
cruel  enough  to  delight  in  making  her  lover  jealous. 
True,  perhaps.  .  .  .  But  he  could  not  banish  his 
morbid  and  ignoble  doubts,  they  turned  his  happi- 
ness to  despair,  and  therefore  she  had  broken  with' 
him  sorrowfully.  .  .  .  Drink,  after  his  long  absti- 
nence, had  had  a  strange,  revolting  taste.  .  .  . 
107 


John  Cave 

"  Wake  up,"  said  Prudence. 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  "  How  about  that 
surprise  ?  " 

She  knelt  upon  the  opposite  praying-chair,  resting 
her  elbows  on  the  sculptured  bar  that  topped  the 
back.  Her  air  was  quaintly  serious  and  business- 
like. 

"You  don't  like  The  Press,  do  you?"  she  be- 
gan. 

"  I  loathe  the  hole,"  said  he. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  go  to  New  York  ?  " 

"And  starve?" 

"  Would  you  go  if  you  could  get  a  good  place?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

"  Well,  I've  got  you  a  good  place." 

"  You  ?  How  ?  "  He  looked  incredulous,  amazed, 
pleased. 

"  Those  stories  of  yours  ...  I  sent  them  over  to 
Miles." 

John  paced  the  room.     "  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

She  laughed  at  his  excitement:  a  sweet  and 
sympathetic  laugh. 

"  He  said  they  were  fine.  He  wants  a  man  like 
you  for  his  Sunday  magazine.  He  wants  you  to 
come  over  and  see  his  Sunday  editor  next  week." 

"  Why,"  said  John,  "  that  would  mean  a  hun- 
dred a  week.     Prudence!  .  .  ." 
108 


John  Cave 

He  strode  to  the  table,  drained  his  glass,  and 
lighted  a  cigarette,  chuckling. 

"  Prudence !  " 

"Well?" 

He  took  her  hands.  "  How  pretty  and  good  you 
are." 

"  Good  ?    I  ?  "     She  laughed  oddly. 

"  I  have  always  known  that  you  were  good." 

He  regarded  her  with  tender  pity.  Then,  sud- 
denly, he  turned  away,  forgetting  her  in  his  own 
affairs  again,  and  with  his  back  to  her  he  mixed 
himself  another  whisky  and  soda,  laughing,  making 
little  joyous  exclamations. 

"Of  course  you'll  take  the  place,  won't  you?" 
she  said. 

He  approached  her,  the  glass  in  his  hand. 

"Your  health,"  he  said.  "How  can  I  thank 
you?" 

"  Have  I  really  helped  you  ?  " 

"Helped  me?  .  .  .  Show  me  Miles's  letter,  will 
you?" 

"  I'll  run  and  get  it.  Then  we'll  take  a  walk. 
Would  you  like  that?" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

She  brought  him  the  letter,  and  he  read  it  while 
she  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves.  It  was  flattering 
enough;  it  seemed  sincere  enough.  .  .  . 

"  Give  me  a  cigarette,"  said  Prudence  suddenly. 
109 


John  Cave 

And  she  sank  into  a  chair.  She  was  yawning  in  the 
oddest  way:  great  yawns  that  succeeded  one  an- 
other with  scarcely  an  intermission.  And  amid 
these  yawns  she  smoked  her  cigarette  ravenously; 
not  as  women  usually  do,  taking  the  smoke  into  the 
mouth  and  blowing  it  forth  again  at  once,  but  with 
profound  inhalations,  drawing  it  deep  down  into  her 
lungs.  And  still  the  yawns  continued. 

"  How  pale  you  are,"  said  John  suspiciously. 

"Ami?" 

"  Yes.     I  noticed  it  from  the  first." 

Flushing  beneath  his  unkind  look,  she  rose  hur- 
riedly. 

"  You  must  excuse  me  a  few  minutes,"  she  said, 
and  yawning,  smiling,  in  an  embarrassment  that  was 
rather  pitiable,  she  hastened  from  the  room.  As  the 
door  closed  he  shouted  after  her  in  a  portentous 
voice : 

"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  do." 

Then,  awaiting  her  return,  he  mused,  the  letter 
open  before  him,  his  glass  and  cigarette  at  hand. 
.  .  .  This  help  was  strangely  opportune,  for  he  had 
not  worked  since  the  night  Diana  broke  with  him, 
and  his  place  on  The  Press  was  doubtless  lost  for 
good.  .  .  .  How  low,  but  for  this  help,  might  he 
not  have  fallen?  .  .  . 

In  New  York  it  would  be  easier  to  forget.  He 
seemed  to  be  forgetting.  In  the  end  he  would  for- 
110 


John  Cave 

get.     But  there  were  times  when  the  memory  of 
Diana  caused  him  intolerable  pain.  .  .  . 

He  sniffed.  A  peculiar  odour  floated  in  little 
puffs  into  the  room:  a  bitter,  acrid  odour.  He 
frowned.  Then  his  troubled  glance  fell  upon  the 
letter,  and  reading  it  again,  he  smiled. 

But  that  acrid  odour,  billowing  in  noiselessly,  filled 
the  room  now,  and,  sniffing  and  frowning,  he  went 
to  Prudence's  door  and  called: 

"  Hurry  up !     I  can't  wait  here  all  day !  " 

When  she  rejoined  him,  beautiful  in  her  sables, 
neither  spoke  of  her  odd  seizure.  They  went  out 
at  once  into  the  bright  sunshine  and  the  dry,  cold 
air  of  a  November  day. 

They  walked  up  and  down  Peanut  Street,  regard- 
ing the  shop-windows'  meagre  display,  regarding 
the  costumes,  too  coarse  and  cumbersome,  of  the 
women,  regarding  the  young  men  with  their  un- 
shaven faces,  their  untidy  boots,  and  their  dusty 
coats  ridiculously  padded. 

"  A  village,"  said  John.  "  An  overgrown  village. 
I'll  be  glad  to  get  out  of  here." 

"  There  isn't  much  life  here,"  said  the  young  girl 
listlessly. 

They  took  tea  at  an  empty  cafe,  they  dined  at  an- 
other empty  cafe,  and  after  dinner  they  visited  a 
vaudeville  theatre  —  a  long  and  dreary  performance, 
nineteen  numbers,  seventeen  of  them  bad. 
in 


John  Cave 

At  last  they  were  on  Peanut  Street  again. 

"  Now  what  shall  we  do  ? ' 

"  I  don't  know." 

It  was  eleven,  and  Peanut  Street  was  as  gloomy 
and  still  as  a  cemetery  path.  The  voices  of  the 
young  couple  resounded  strangely  in  the  silent  night, 
and  when  a  rare  pedestrian  approached,  the  thunder 
of  his  footfalls,  augmenting  as  he  drew  near,  dying 
as  he  departed,  was  audible  a  square  away.  Now 
and  then,  when  they  passed  a  police  officer,  the 
man  regarded  them  suspiciously. 

"  Come  to  the  Westminster,"  said  John,  "  and 
we'll  drink  a  bottle  of  champagne  to  my  new  job." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Prudence,  fretfully.  "  You  drink 
too  much." 

"  Don't  you  talk !  "  said  he.  He  gave  her  a  sour 
look.  She  seemed  uneasy  and  cold,  seemed  to  want 
to  be  rid  of  him.  "  Have  you  an  appointment  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"What  is  it  for?" 

"  I'm  going  to  take  supper  at  twelve  o'clock  in 
Chinatown." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"  You  may  if  you  like." 

"  You  need  looking  after." 

His  tone  was  gruff,  but  its  significance  was  clear 
to  her,  and  she  said  meekly,  gratefully : 
112 


John  Cave 

"  Yes,  do  come." 

They  went  to  the  Westminster  after  all.  From  a 
little  corner  table  they  stared  through  the  smoke  at 
the  energetic  orchestra  and  the  handful  of  languid 
listeners.  They  sipped  their  icy  and  sharp  wine. 

"  I  told  you  that  you'd  get  the  habit,"  said  John. 

With  downcast  eyes  she  played  with  the  stem  of 
her  glass.  There  was  a  long  silence.  She  made  a 
little  grimace.  "  It's  not  much  of  a  habit,"  she 
said. 

"  You're  very  pale." 

"  I  wasn't  well  all  summer." 

"  Of  course  you  weren't.     And  you  know  why." 

He  threw  back  his  head  to  drain  the  last  drop  of 
his  wine.  She  regarded  him  with  a  sneer,  and,  as 
he  wiped  his  wet  mouth,  she  said : 

"  My  habit  is  no  worse  than  yours." 

"Oh,  isn't  it?"  he  retorted.  "Oh,  but  it  is, 
though.  I  can  stop.  You  can't." 

A  frown,  worried  and  frightened,  ruffled  the 
serenity  of  her  pale  and  beautiful  brow,  and  she 
faltered : 

"  Maybe,  when  you  go  to  New  York,  I'll  come 
over  there,  too  .  .  .  and  you'll  help  me,  and  I'll 
help  you  ...  to  give  up  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  be  glad  to  help  you,  dear,"  he  said.  He  laid 
his  hand  on  hers.  "  We'll  help  one  another." 

There  followed  a  space  of  serious  silence.  Each 
"3 


John  Cave 

debated  whether  or  no  the  appointment  should  be 
kept  in  Chinatown.  Each  felt,  after  that  little  talk, 
extremely  virtuous  and  solemn.  At  the  same 
time  .  .  . 

"  Shall  we  go  to  Chinatown  or  not  ?  "  said  he. 

She  hesitated,  smiling.  Then,  "  Suppose  we  do," 
she  said  impulsively.  "  And  to-morrow,  a  new 
leaf." 


114 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  Chinese  restaurant  had  a  dingy  exterior. 
The  dark,  bare  hall  reeked  with  unpleasant  odours. 
The  stairway  they  ascended  was  drab  with  dirt. 

But  at  the  top  of  the  stairway  a  wide  door  opened 
upon  a  clean  and  spacious  kitchen  brilliantly  lighted, 
and  there,  over  huge  fires,  over  great  pans  of  gleam- 
ing copper,  four  or  five  neat  Chinese  cooks  worked 
quickly  and  quietly  at  marble  tables  piled  with  white 
or  red  or  green  mounds  of  food. 

"  In  every  Chinese  restaurant,"  John  explained, 
"  the  kitchen  is  placed  in  full  view,  like  this.  You 
inspect  the  kitchen  before  you  go  into  the  dining- 
room.  You  ascertain  for  yourself  the  food's  quality 
and  the  cooks'  cleanliness." 

"  I  know,"  said  Prudence. 

In  the  restaurant  her  friends  sat  waiting :  a  half- 
dozen  young  men  and  girls,  smoking  cigarettes  and 
drinking  tea,  leaning  forward,  their  sleek  heads 
close  together,  conversing  quietly  and  earnestly. 
Pale  and  thin,  with  a  look  of  extreme  poverty  de- 
spite the  neatness  of  their  dress  and  the  gaiety  of 
their  ties  and  ribbons,  they  were  always  to  be  found 


John  Cave 

conversing  excitedly  in  low  tones,  for  they  were  al- 
ways in  trouble  with  the  police. 

They  rose  and  greeted  the  new-comers  with  gentle 
courtesy,  pressing  on  them  superb  China  tea  and 
execrable  Virginia  cigarettes.  They  were  profuse 
with  polite  attentions,  gentle  murmurs  of  welcome, 
intelligent  and  sympathetic  smiles. 

The  room  was  uncarpeted,  the  tables  were  with- 
out cloths,  and  here  and  there  a  silent  Chinaman,  his 
shoes  kicked  off  for  comfort's  sake,  and  his  feet,  in 
their  immaculate  white  stockings,  on  the  rungs  of 
his  stool,  ate  duck  or  chicken  and  tossed  the  bones 
beneath  him. 

The  food  was  good.  Bowls  of  steamed  rice  as 
light  as  foam,  served  with  a  rich  and  highly-seasoned 
sauce  from  Shanghai,  cold  chicken  in  moist  and 
tender  white  cubes,  ragouts  of  duck,  mushrooms, 
ham  and  such-like  savoury  substances  —  altogether 
it  made  an  appetising  midnight  supper. 

And  after  they  had  eaten,  the  little  party,  leaning 
back  in  their  chairs,  lighted  cigarettes  and  drank 
more  of  the  delicious  tea.  Prudence's  friends  talked 
of  their  wrongs.  In  low  and  bitter  tones  they  told 
of  the  extortions  of  their  landlords,  the  extortions  of 
the  police,  the  extortions  of  the  detectives  of  the 
various  leagues  for  the  suppression  of  vice. 

John,  knowing  that  they  were  regarded  by  so- 
ciety as  a  particularly  degraded  and  dangerous 
116 


John  Cave 

criminal  type,  marvelled  at  their  youth ;  for  the  old- 
est of  these  girls  was  not  more  than  eighteen  or 
nineteen,  the  oldest  of  these  young  men  was  not 
more  than  twenty-two  or  twenty-three.  It  was  sad 
to  see  such  mere  children  chained  to  a  horrible 
vice.  .  .  .  But  what  was  the  girl  in  red  saying  ? 

"  They  gave  me  three  months,"  she  said.  "  I 
swore  I  hadn't  touched  his  glasses,  but  what  did 
my  word  count  for?  And  it  was  not  till  I  had 
served  thirty  days  of  my  time  that  I  remembered 
how,  in  his  drunkenness,  the  glasses  had  kept  fall- 
ing off  his  nose,  and  I  had  put  them  out  of  harm's 
way  in  his  overcoat  pocket.  I  sent  him  word  to 
look  there  for  them,  and  he  got  me  out  last  Wednes- 
day. He  was  sorry,  oh,  very  sorry  .  .  .  and  I  had 
been  almost  two  months  in  jail." 

"  Sue  him." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "  What's  he  got?  "  she 
said  scornfully. 

One  of  the  pale  young  men  began  to  yawn.  He 
yawned  and  yawned.  His  friends  regarded  him 
with  sympathy. 

"  Have  you  got  your  habit  on  ?  "  said  Prudence. 

The  pale  young  man  smiled  apologetically.  "  I've 
got  my  habit." 

They  prepared  at  once  to  depart.  They  went  in 
sections,  fearing  to  go  together  on  account  of  the 
police.  Two  by  two,  at  intervals  of  five  minutes 
"7. 


John  Cave 

or  so,  they  passed  out.  John,  as  he  sped  with  Pru- 
dence through  the  squalid  streets,  said  with  a  sneer : 

"  What  a  lot !  " 

She  frowned  impatiently.     "  Oh,  well !  " 

"  Do  you  see  them  often  ?  " 

"  No ;  not  very  often." 

And  she  paused  before  a  mean  little  house,  looked 
up  and  down  the  street,  then  opened  the  door  and 
hurriedly  drew  John  in  with  her.  Through  a  dark 
hall  they  stumbled,  and,  ascending  a  dark  stairway, 
they  entered  a  room  that  a  gas  jet  dimly  lighted. 

The  room  was  hung  with  flimsy  Oriental  hang- 
ings of  yellow  and  red.  There  were  rickety  divans, 
spears,  torn  paper  parasols,  hanging  lamps  of  cop- 
per set  with  stones  of  coloured  glass,  stained  cush- 
ions. Here,  at  five  dollars  a  head,  sightseers  from 
the  country  occasionally  came  to  watch  with  awed 
eyes  the  smoking  of  a  few  pipes. 

The  young  people,  talking  in  low  tones,  set  on  the 
floor  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a  glittering  opium 
lay-out  in  a  large  brass  tray.  They  placed  nearby 
cigarettes,  matches,  and  a  basket  of  fruit.  About 
all  that  they  piled  in  a  great  circle  the  gaudy  cush- 
ions from  the  divans.  Then,  with  happy  smiles, 
with  little  sighs,  with  low,  contented  laughter,  they 
lay  down. 

They  lay  on  the  left  side,  with  the  right  hand  and 
arm  free,  forming  a  circle  of  alternate  male  and 
118 


John  Cave 

female  figures.  Each  young  man's  head  rested  on 
the  breast  of  a  girl,  while  on  his  own  breast  in  turn 
a  girl's  head  was  pillowed. 

John,  who  had  declined  to  smoke,  was  bidden 
to  turn  off  the  gas.  He  did  so,  and  the  little  lamp 
of  peanut  oil  cast  a  faint  light,  strangely  clear, 
upon  the  circle  of  pallid  faces. 

A  girl  of  seventeen  began  to  cook  the  pills.  She 
cooked  them  very  quickly  —  she  was  famed  for  her 
dexterity  —  rolling  them  with  an  odd,  skilful  move- 
ment on  the  ball  of  her  thumb,  which  long  usage 
had  hardened  and  stained. 

First  she  served  the  yawning  youth.  Tremulous 
with  desire,  he  smoked  six  pills  in  succession. 
Then,  with  a  tranquil  sigh,  he  lay  back  on  his  com- 
panion's breast,  smiled,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  fluently  in  subdued  tones. 

The  pipe  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  The 
smokers  each  got  about  four  pills  an  hour.  In  the 
intervals  of  waiting  they  occupied  themselves  with 
fruit  and  with  cigarettes.  And  like  a  hive  the 
room  hummed  with  the  murmur  of  their  contented 
voices. 

But  they  grew  silent  when  the  cook  announced 
that  another  pill  was  ready.  They  watched  with 
sympathy  the  youth  or  girl  whose  turn  it  was.  The 
pipe  in  the  stillness  emitted  its  ugly  gurgle  as  the 
bitter  fumes  were  inhaled.  The  smoker,  satisfied, 
119 


John  Cave 

fell  back  languidly.     Then  once  more  the  murmured 
conversation  was  resumed. 

John  was  ignored  utterly.  Sullen  and  drowsy, 
he  sat  in  the  shadow.  It  annoyed  him  to  see  the 
intimacy  that  had  sprung  up  between  Prudence  and 
one  of  the  young  men.  .  .  . 

He  must  have  dozed.  He  started  awake  as  the 
State  House  clock  struck  three.  He  looked  about 
him  wearily.  The  little  lamp  of  peanut  oil  threw 
its  clear,  faint  light  on  the  circle  of  smokers.  The 
young  girl  cook  rolled  the  opium  pills  swiftly.  The 
pipe  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  The  low  hum  of 
conversation  was  incessant.  Prudence  and  the  pale 
youth  exchanged  the  tenderest  smiles. 

Seized  with  a  sudden  resolution,  he  arose. 

"  My  God,"  he  said,  in  a  disdainful  and  sad  voice, 
"  what  do  you  all  see  in  this  ?  " 

They  smiled  without  looking  up,  and  Prudence 
answered  drowsily: 

"  What  do  you  see  in  getting  drunk  ?  " 

He  gave  a  mournful  laugh.  Vice  for  vice,  opium 
smoking  was  truly  comelier  than  drunkenness. 
l  But  it  destroyed  too  swiftly.  .  .  .  These  young 
outcasts  would  lie  here,  passing  the  pipe  from  hand 
to  hand,  till,  at  nine  or  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
sleep  overcame  them.  They  would  awake  late  in  the 
afternoon,  take  some  strong  coffee  and  some  fruit, 
and  then  begin  to  smoke  again.  So,  but  for  the 
1 20 


John  Cave 

lack  of  money,  they  would  keep  on  —  a  week,  two 
weeks  —  till  they  became  yellow  skeletons  with 
burning  eyes.  Yellow  skeletons,  too  weak  to  rise, 
lying  on  the  gaudy  cushions,  extending  tremulously 
for  the  drug  a  pipestem  arm  and  a  hand  like  a 
claw,  murmuring  tenderly  to  one  another  absurd 
and  meaningless  phrases  such  as  one  hears  in 
dreams. 

He  hastened  to  the  nearest  telephone  booth  and 
called  up  The  Press,  asking  for  the  managing  editor, 
who  was  apt,  at  this  hour,  to  be  in  his  office  alone. 
Norris's  voice  came  to  him  over  the  wire. 

"  Mr.  Norris,"  said  the  young  man,  "  this  is 
Cave." 

"Well?" 

"  Is  my  place  still  open  for  me?  " 

Norris  laughed.  "  Do  you  think  it's  best  to  come 
back?" 

"  I  have  had  an  offer  from  Miles,"  John  said. 
"  He  likes  my  stuff.  He  is  willing  to  try  me  as  a 
feature  writer." 

"  Good,"  said  Norris. 

"  But  I'd  rather  come  back  to  you." 

Norris  laughed  again.  "  All  right.  Come  back," 
said  he. 

John  returned  to  Prudence.  The  youth  whose  head 
lay  on  her  breast  looked  up  at  her  in  a  childlike  way, 
and  interminably  his  voice  flowed  on  in  a  monoto- 

121 


John  Cave 

nous  murmur.     With  a  dreamy  smile  she  listened, 
her  slim  fingers  moving  gently  in  his  dark  curls. 

John  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  She  started,  and 
her  eyes  met  his  in  a  meaningless  stare. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  New  York,"  he  said. 

"New  York?" 

A  shadow  of  perplexity  that  came  and  vanished, 
and  her  face  regained  at  once  its  aspect  of  exalted 
and  calm  joy. 

"  No ;  I  am  not  going  to  New  York." 

"  Well,  what  is  that  to  me?  " 

He  hastened  out  into  the  dreary  night.  Tired,  ill, 
unkempt,  he  seemed  to  be  struggling  painfully  forth 
from  a  morass  of  mental  and  physical  rottenness 
wherein  he  had  wallowed  a  long  while. 

"  Diana,"  he  murmured,  "  save  me !  I  love  you, 
dear  Diana.  You  are  my  salvation.  Come,  or  I 
will  soon  strangle  in  the  foul  ooze.  .  .  ." 

Feverish  and  weak,  he  smiled  to  hear  himself 
speaking  aloud  in  the  empty  street. 

"  No  priest  loathes  pollution  more  than  I,  yet  at 
the  first  failure  or  sorrow  I  sink  back  into  the  morass 
as  into  a  warm,  soft  bed.  That  is  how  I  am  made, 
and  you  alone,  dear,  can  save  me." 

Denied  a  God,  he  worshipped  a  girl.  Robbed  of 
a  God  by  modern  thought,  he  prayed  to  a  girl  with 
implicit  faith  in  her  goodness  and  her  power  to 
save  him. 

122 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  I  AM  a  practical  person,"  Diana  said.  "  It  is 
clear,  from  what  you  tell  me,  that  these  men  at  The 
Press  are  your  inferiors  in  talent." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  he  interjected. 

"  But  talent,"  she  went  on,  "  isn't  everything. 
There  is  diplomacy.  You  despise  these  men.  You 
abominate  their  commonplace  minds.  Well,  maybe 
they  dislike  you  because  you  have  shown  them  this." 

He  laughed.     "  Indeed  I  have  shown  them !  " 

"  Of  course  you  can't  succeed,"  said  Diana,  frown- 
ing, "  in  a  nest  of  enemies." 

They  were  walking  in  a  forest.  Dead  leaves  were 
falling  softly.  A  scarlet  oak  leaf  caught  in  her 
gilt  hair. 

He  stepped  behind  her,  fastened  the  leaf  more 
firmly  in  its  glistening  place,  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  the  smooth  white  flesh  of  her  neck.  The  flesh 
of  her  neck  was  warm  and  sweet  to  his  lips.  Her 
hair  had  a  keen  and  thrilling  odour.  He  closed  his 
eyes.  .  .  .  But  she  drew  away  gently. 

"  You  can't  succeed,"  Diana  repeated,  "  in  a  nest 
of  enemies." 

"Well,  what  am  I  to  do?" 
123 


John  Cave 

"Do?    Make  friends." 

"  It  is  an  ignoble  way  to  succeed,"  he  muttered 
moodily. 

"Why  ignoble?" 

"  Because  one  wants  to  succeed  through  good 
work  alone."  He  paused,  recalling  his  career  at 
The  Press.  "  And  yet,"  he  said,  "  it  has  not  been 
good  work,  but  complaints  about  the  other  men, 
boasts  about  myself,  that  have  advanced  me  so 
far." 

"  I  am  practical,"  said  Diana.  "  I  see  clearly 
that,  to  succeed,  you  must  work  hard  in  many  ways. 
It  will  not  be  enough  to  do  your  best  over  your 
stories :  you  must  also  do  your  best  to  make  power- 
ful friends  and  to  convince  these  friends  of  your  ex- 
traordinary ability." 

Her  smile  was  delicate  and  arch.  How  beautiful, 
how  wise  she  was.  Their  reconciliation  made  him 
incredibly  happy.  And  floating  in  happiness,  as 
birds  float  in  the  perfumed  air,  the  soft,  silent,  rose- 
coloured  air  of  a  midsummer  sunset,  he  told  himself 
with  profound  emotion  that  after  their  marriage  he 
would  be  always  as  happy  as  this,  always,  every  mo- 
ment, as  happy  as  this,  until  death.  What  would  he 
not  do,  then,  to  speed  their  marriage  ? 

"I'll  make  friends,"  he  cried.  "I'll  make  the 
fools  worship  me." 


124 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HE  had  on  The  Press  but  one  friend,  the  managing 
editor,  and  sometimes  he  fancied  that  he  saw  in 
the  managing  editor's  manner  a  certain  coldness. 
Norris  could  not  but  be  influenced  by  the  hatred 
that  raged  and  beat  about  John  Cave's  name. 

Yes,  decidedly,  he  must  make  friends. 

Collier,  the  city  editor,  had  seemed  to  dislike  him 
for  a  long  time.  Collier  must  now  be  won  over. 
Impossible  task ! 

John,  whenever  a  good  idea  for  a  local  story 
came  to  him,  hastened  to  Collier  with  it.  Collier,  a 
day's  grey  stubble  on  his  face,  a  pencil  held  cross- 
wise in  his  mouth  like  a  bit,  lay  back  in  his  re- 
volving chair  as  in  a  bed,  his  unpolished  boots  on 
his  desk  and  a  journal  open  at  arm's  length  before 
him;  and  in  that  reclining  attitude  he  would  look 
up  at  John,  lowering  a  little  his  wall  of  newspaper, 
and  he  would  listen  to  the  young  man's  suggestion 
with  his  small  head,  with  its  crest  of  stiff  hair, 
cocked,  like  a  parrot's,  on  one  side. 

"  Well  ? "  John  would  conclude  anxiously. 
"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  It's  a  good  local 
story,  isn't  it?" 


John  Cave 

The  other's  hard  blue  eyes  would  glitter  with 
malevolence.  He  would  give  a  harsh,  cackling 
laugh. 

"  Ha,  ha !  No,  Cave.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I 
don't  see  any  story  in  that.  Ha,  ha !  " 

And  he  would  rise  slowly.  Spreading  out  his 
arms  to  their  full  length,  he  would  yawn  with  a  vio- 
lence that  lifted  him  up  on  tiptoe.  "A  —  a  —  ah  — 
h-h-g-g-h-h " 

Then,  sinking  back  into  his  chair,  he  would  take 
up  languidly  again  one  of  the  newspapers  over 
which  he  mooned  his  life  away. 

Intelligent,  learned,  the  best  of  husbands,  tem- 
perate, regular,  Collier  as  a  journalist  was  worth- 
less for  the  reason  that  he  disliked  his  work,  which 
he  deemed  little  better  than  old  women's  gossip. 
Year  after  year  he  had  hoped  to  make  a  change, 
but  the  years  had  flown  too  fast  for  him  —  ten 
years,  twenty  years  —  and  while  he  waited  for  some 
pleasanter  work,  some  work  worthy  of  his  powers, 
some  work  really  fitted  to  his  cultivated  and  fas- 
tidious mind,  life  had  passed  like  a  dream.  Already 
he  was  an  elderly  man,  clinging  to  his  post  as  a 
wrecked  sailor,  alone  on  a  wide  sea,  clings  to  a  spar. 
Collier  felt  himself  very  much  alone,  and  on  the 
bleak,  grey  sea  he  saw  no  other  spars. 

It  was  not  strange  that  he  disliked  Cave.  Cave's 
ingratitude  had  hurt  him.  He  had  opened  the  doors 
126 


John  Cave 

of  The  Press  to  Cave,  yet  the  young  man  had  got 
himself  transferred  from  Collier's  to  a  better,  a  rival, 
department ;  and  furthermore  he  had  told  a  brother 
reporter,  Lawson,  that  he  considered  Collier  a 
worthless  workman,  and  Lawson  had  repeated  to 
Collier  those  cruel  words. 

Suspecting  something  of  all  this,  but  hopeful  on 
the  whole,  John  came  week  after  week  to  the  local 
room  with  his  ideas,  which  week  after  week  Collier 
laughed  to  scorn. 


He  tried  to  make  friends  with  the  editor-in- 
chief. 

Thirty  years  ago  the  editor-in-chief  had  been  a 
typesetter.  He  owed  his  success  to  a  bluff  toady- 
ism, almost  a  bullying  toadyism. 

"  Damn  you,"  he  would  growl,  striking  the  owner 
on  the  back,  "  you're  a  soft-hearted  fool." 

And  then  he  would  suggest  some  niggardly  re- 
trenchment, the  discharge  of  this  man,  the  doubling 
of  that  man's  work,  which  suited  but  too  well  the 
owner's  economical  mind. 

He  kept  in  his  desk  the  dog-eared  grammar, 
written  by  an  unknown  ignoramus,  that  he  had 
conned  in  the  intervals  of  typesetting  in  his  am- 
bitious youth.  That  the  obscure  author  of  this 
grammar  was  without  authority  meant  nothing  to 
127 


John  Cave 

him;  he  deemed  all  grammars,  like  all  Bibles,  in- 
fallible :  and  imposing  on  The  Press  the  book's  ab- 
surd rules,  he  made  it  impossible  to  write  there,  for 
example,  "  When  summer  comes,"  but  one  had  to 
write,  "  When  summer  shall  have  come." 

Strange  almost  to  insanity  were  the  ideas  of  the 
self-taught  old  man.  At  The  Press's  expense  he 
imported  from  London  yearly  a  dream  book  and  an 
almanac.  The  dream  book  showed  the  grave  sig- 
nificance inherent  in  every  sort  of  dream  —  the 
significance  of  dreaming  of  the  loss  of  a  tooth,  the 
significance  of  dreaming  of  a  fall  from  a  high 
place  —  and  each  morning  he  consulted  the  volume 
surreptitiously.  The  almanac  foretold  the  future, 
giving  lucky  and  unlucky  days,  predicting  hurri- 
canes and  earthquakes;  he  would  undertake  no 
journey  or  piece  of  business  without  going  to  it 
secretly  for  guidance. 

John  often  came  to  him,  often,  standing  respect- 
fully before  his  desk,  recounted  flattering  things 
that  had  been  said  of  him  by  the  great  men  of  the 
city;  but,  though  the  editor-in-chief  would  perhaps 
be  pleased,  he  would  glare  at  his  informant  sus- 
piciously, and  in  the  silence  John,  conscious  of  the 
dislike  and  mistrust  in  the  grey,  fat,  stupid  face 
with  its  dull  and  bulging  eyes,  would  withdraw,  em- 
barrassed, disappointed.  Alas,  he  had  often  ridi- 
culed the  grammar,  the  dream  book  and  the 
128 


John  Cave 

almanac,  and  Lawson  had  hinted  something  of  all 
that  ridicule  to  the  very  sensitive  old  man. 

The  editor-in-chief's  son  was  the  Sunday  editor, 
and  the  eccentricity  that  Clayton  had  inherited 
from  his  father  spent  itself  on  dress  —  on  red 
waistcoats,  on  great  pearl-coloured  sombreros,  on 
lace  stockings  through  which  the  flesh  of  instep  and 
ankle  gleamed. 

Little,  thin,  sallow,  Clayton  strutted  ridiculously 
in  his  gay  and  outlandish  garb.  And  in  his  love 
of  changing  embellishment,  of  strange  and  striking 
ornament,  he  even  brought  his  beard  into  service, 
wearing  now  the  mild,  neat  side-whiskers  of  a 
clergyman,  now  a  fierce  military  moustache,  and 
once  he  was  seen  with  the  delicate  chin-tuft  of  a 
romantic  Spanish  portrait,  and  once  with  the  great, 
fan-shaped  beard  of  a  Norse  sea-robber  spreading 
superbly  over  his  narrow  chest. 

Twice  a  week  he  visited  a  manicure  parlour 
where,  at  a  small  table  opposite  a  pretty  girl,  he 
sat  with  one  thin,  yellow,  knotted  hand  in  a  bowl 
of  rosewater,  while  the  nails  of  the  other  hand  the 
young  girl  trimmed  and  polished  and  tinted  and 
perfumed.  During  that  pleasant  hour  he  con- 
versed languidly,  his  eye  roving  over  the  spacious 
and  gay  room.  There  were  as  many  little  tables 
there  as  in  a  restaurant,  and  at  each  table  a  young 
129 


John  Cave 

man,  pale  and  perfumed,  held  one  hand  in  a  bowl 
of  tepid  rosewater,  while  the  pretty  operator  bent 
busily  over  the  other,  with  intimate  laughter  and 
coquettish  murmurings.  .  .  . 

Though  he  wore  an  anti-rheumatic  ring  of  iron 
on  his  thumb,  he  suffered  not  a  little  from  rheuma- 
tism of  the  ankles,  and  in  December,  when  he  lay 
bed-ridden,  John,  to  win  his  friendship,  visited  him, 
praised  his  taste,  and  suggested  a  half-dozen  Sun- 
day stories. 

Clayton,  unshaven  and  dishevelled,  listened 
haughtily.  He  lay  on  his  back  in  the  great  bed,  a 
little  yellow  skeleton  in  pyjamas  of  pink  silk.  The 
air  was  heavily  scented  by  a  huge  bowl  of  artificial 
violets,  and  Clayton's  haughty  look  changed  to  one 
of  gratification  when  his  sister  entered  and  sprayed 
the  paper  flowers  with  cologne. 

"  A  good  idea,  that,"  said  John.  "  Better  in 
some  ways  than  the  real  thing." 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Well,  can  you  use  any  of  those  stories  ?  " 

Clayton  frowned.  He  meditated  deeply.  Then 
he  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said. 

And  he  grew  haughtier  than  ever,  suddenly  re- 
calling how,  in  Lawson's  hearing,  John  had  ridiculed 
his  brown  frock-coat. 


130 


John  Cave 

For  the  literary  and  dramatic  editor  he  occasion- 
ally reviewed  a  play  or  a  book.  Williams  accepted 
that  help  gladly,  but  mentioned  it  to  nobody.  On 
the  contrary,  when  he  liked  one  of  John's  reviews 
particularly  well,  he  signed  his  own  name  to  it. 

Williams  had  read  everything  in  the  world,  and 
had  forgotten  nothing  of  his  reading.  His  fluency 
was  prodigious ;  words  gushed  from  his  tongue  and 
his  pen  as  water  gushes  from  a  hose.  His  articles, 
which  were  regarded  as  works  of  genius  in  the 
office,  abounded  in  such  phrases  as  "  quintessential 
unctuousness." 

Williams  would  have  liked  to  help  John,  but,  as 
the  mainstay  of  nine  children,  a  wife  and  two  mis- 
tresses, he  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  help  no  one 
but  himself. 

Williams's  assistant,  labouring  bitterly  at  his 
desk,  reviewing  a  dozen  novels  a  day,  writing  on 
Monday  night  criticisms  of  twenty  plays  that  he 
had  never  seen,  often  looked  up  from  his  manu- 
script to  curse  his  chief. 

Thrilled  with  John's  sympathy,  he  narrated  his 
wrongs.  They  were  the  usual  wrongs  of  the  un- 
derling; he  did  all  the  work,  Williams  got  all  the 
pay  and  all  the  glory. 

But  there  was  more  than  this,  the  assistant  hinted 
darkly,  and  he  lighted  a  cigarette  and  put  his  foot 


John  Cave 

on  his  desk,  prepared  for  a  comfortable  chat. 
There  was  more  than  this.  Williams  was  a  grafter. 
He  was  paid  by  the  managers  to  write  favourable 
reviews  of  poor  plays,  and  he  was  paid  by  the  pub- 
lishers to  write  favourable  reviews  of  poor  books. 
The  thing  was  certain,  and  the  assistant  was  piling 
proof  on  proof.  A  Peanut  Street  tobacconist  .  .  . 
But  it  would  be  unwise,  at  this  stage,  to  go  into  de- 
tails. .  .  ,  However  .  .  .  and  a  pink  flush  ap- 
peared in  the  cheeks  of  the  excited  young  man,  and, 
swearing  a  tremendous  oath,  he  struck  the  desk  a 
crashing  blow  with  his  small,  pale  fist. 

But  just  then  Williams  entered.  His  look  was 
stern.  Had  he  heard  anything?  John  bent  over 
his  manuscript  in  confusion,  and  Williams  began 
to  dictate  slowly  —  for  the  assistant  did  not  write 
shorthand  —  a  criticism  studded  with  such  words 
as  "  artistry,"  "  stellar,"  and  "  smutty." 

On  his  departure  the  young  men  smiled  at  one 
another  with  relief.  Williams  had  heard  nothing. 
Then  they  put  their  feet  on  their  desks  again, 
lighted  fresh  cigarettes,  and  resumed  their  scandal- 
ous gossip. 

The  desperate  assistant  had  been  betrothed  for 

three  years.     People  were  continually  asking  him 

when  the  marriage  would  take  place,  and  he  always 

answered  cheerily,  "  In  the  spring,"  or  "  In  the 

132 


John  Cave 

fall."  It  was,  of  course,  impossible  for  him  to 
marry;  on  his  salary  of  eighteen  dollars  he  could 
scarcely  keep  himself.  But  if  he  succeeded  in  oust- 
ing Williams.  .  .  . 

He  tried  to  make  friends  with  the  leader  writers, 
a  half-dozen  old  men,  silent  and  grim,  who  wrote 
interminable  leaders  on  bimetallism,  the  tariff,  the 
gold  reserve. 

The  leader  writers  were  willing  to  be  flattered, 
they  were  willing  to  talk  about  themselves;  but 
John  soon  learned  that  not  one  of  them  was  willing 
to  give  him  a  friendly  upward  push.  For  some  had 
heard  from  Lawson  his  opinion  of  their  dry  lead- 
ers, while  the  rest  thought  that,  for  his  age  and 
ability,  he  had  already  climbed  higher  on  The  Press 
than  he  deserved. 

The  rubber  stamp  man,  Gray,  he  did  not  attempt 
to  placate.  Gray  loathed  him  too  profoundly. 
When  the  dark  eyes  of  the  fat  copy  reader  rested 
on  the  youth,  they  glittered  with  maniacal  hatred; 
and,  as  John  left  the  local  room,  Gray  always  made 
some  remark  in  a  low  voice  to  the  shabby  and  mid- 
dle-aged reporters  grouped  about  him,  and  a  shout 
of  mocking  laughter  would  arise. 


*33 


John  Cave 

The  Press,  he  mused,  had  grown  old.  The  old 
men  held  all  the  posts  of  value ;  and  in  order  to  keep 
these  posts,  they  fought  against  the  advancement 
of  the  young  men  as  desperately  as  kings  fight 
against  usurpers. 


134 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THEY  were  walking  again  in  the  forest.  The 
day  was  grey  and  cold.  A  humid  wind  rattled  the 
bare  boughs  with  a  dismal  sound,  and  now  and 
then,  out  of  a  sky  as  sordid  and  cheerless  as  a  slum, 
a  few  white  snowflakes  fell. 

"  Are  you  discouraged  ?  "  said  Diana  sadly. 

"  Yes,  damn  it,"  said  he. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  faltered. 

"  All  your  time  is  passed  with  other  men,"  he 
growled.  "  Your  people  have  stopped  speaking  to 
me.  My  prospects  are  hopeless." 

"  Hopeless  at  The  Press,  perhaps,  but " 

"  Hopeless  everywhere,"  he  interrupted.  "  I'm 
no  good." 

"  You  are  fine,"  she  said ;  "  fine,  if  you'd  work 
hard,  and  not  get  discouraged." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  His  brow  cleared, 
he  laughed.  Her  faith  filled  him  again  with  hope 
and  energy. 

"  If  I  could  only,"  he  said,  "  strike  out  for  myself 
somehow." 

A  snowflake  lighted  softly  on  her  cheek,  and  he 
watched  the  delicate  and  airy  thing  melt  on  the 
warm,  pink  flesh. 

135 


John  Cave 

"  Do  it,"  she  said. 

And  she  took  his  arm,  and  they  walked  gaily 
over  the  frozen  ground,  between  the  bare  trees, 
while  from  the  grey,  cold  sky  the  snow  fell  gently. 

"  I  might  syndicate,"  he  mused. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  To  syndicate,"  he  explained,  "  is  to  print  a  story 
simultaneously  in  different  cities.  For  a  low  price 
you  allow  a  dozen  papers,  one  in  each  city,  to  print 
the  same  story  on  the  same  day." 

"That  sounds  good,"  said  Diana.     "Try  it." 

"  But  I  fear  the  field  is  overcrowded.  I  was 
talking  to  Alden  about  it,  and  he  told  me  there  was 
no  money  in  syndicating  any  more.  Still " 

"  Try  it,"  said  Diana.  "  Franklin's  mother,  you 
know,  told  him  the  field  was  overcrowded  when  he 
wanted  to  start  a  newspaper  in  Philadelphia.  She 
pointed  out  that  there  were  already  two  newspapers 
in  America." 

"I  will  try  it!"  he  said. 

"  It  will  be  fun,"  said  she.  "  Even  if  you  fail, 
it  will  be  fun." 

The  storm  was  increasing.  The  snow  lay  on  her 
sable  stole,  it  clung  in  white  burrs  to  her  yellow 
hair;  and  smiling,  panting,  flushed,  she  looked  at 
him  with  shining  violet  eyes  through  a  pale  flurry 
of  flakes. 

"Won't  it  be  f  un  ?"  she  said. 
136 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AND  fun  it  was,  fun  from  the  very  start. 

The  first  thing  he  would  syndicate,  he  decided, 
would  be  a  Sunday  story,  one  of  those  news  stories, 
illustrated  with  photographs,  that  the  Sunday  mag- 
zine  sections  used.  He  searched  his  mind,  he 
searched  the  papers,  for  a  good  story,  and  in  a  day 
or  two  he  had  a  dozen  ideas. 

He  went  over  them  with  Diana  in  a  quiet  little 
restaurant  in  Locust  Street. 

"  They  are  all  good,"  said  the  young  girl  thought- 
fully. "  I  don't  know  which  to  choose." 

"  The  story  of  medicines  made  from  snake  venom 
would  illustrate  well,"  said  he.  "  Or  how  about 
the  young  millionaire  who  lived  for  a  year  as  a 
tramp?  If  he'd  pose  in  his  tramp  disguise  .  .  ." 

"  Last  night,"  said  Diana,  "  I  thought  of  a  story 
for  you  myself." 

"Did  you?    What  was  it?" 

But  she  frowned.     She  could  not  remember. 

"  I  got  out  some  old  magazines  and  newspapers," 
she  said,  "  and  the  idea  came  to  me  while  I  was 
looking  them  over.     But  it  wasn't  very  good.    You 
would  have  laughed  at  it,  I'm  sure." 
137 


John  Cave 

It  pleased  and  touched  him,  the  picture  of  this 
beautiful  girl,  with  magazines  and  journals  about 
her,  bending  over  her  desk  in  the  lamplit  silence, 
trying  to  help  him.  .  .  . 

"  Well,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  list  again,  "  what 
do  you  think?  Shall  we  take  the  story  of  the  fish 
doctor,  the  story  of  the  beauty  parlour  for  men, 
or " 

"  Oh,"  said  Diana,  "  I  remember  my  story  now. 
That  idol  factory." 

"Fine!"  he  cried. 

And  he  congratulated  her  enthusiastically.  He 
declared  that  she  was  a  superb  journalist.  This 
idol  factory  story,  he  said,  was  better  than  all  the 
stories  that  he  had  thought  of  put  together. 

It  seemed  truly  that  he  could  not  have  hit  upon 
a  better  story  wherewith  to  begin  to  syndicate.  If 
there  was  any  money  to  be  made  in  syndicating, 
this  story  would  gain  some  of  it.  If  this  story 
failed,  then  syndicating,  as  Alden  had  said,  was 
indeed  an  overcrowded  field. 

The  idol  factory  story  for  a  week  had  been  float- 
ing, like  a  lump  of  ambergris  whose  value  no  one 
perceives,  in  the  currents  of  the  news.  Every  day 
or  so  there  had  appeared  an  idol  factory  paragraph 
in  the  thousands  of  newspapers  composing  the 
American  press ;  but  only  a  brief  paragraph,  noth- 
ing more.  Diana  had  been  the  first  person  to  per- 
138 


John  Cave 

ceive  how  much  more  than  a  paragraph  such  a 
story  was  worth,  the  first  person  to  recognise  that 
this  unclaimed  object  afloat  in  the  news  currents 
was  true  ambergris. 

A  Corean  had  come  to  America  to  buy  idols  for 
his  people.  Idols,  he  said,  were  made  in  America 
by  machinery  much  more  cheaply  than  they  could 
be  made  by  hand  at  home.  For  some  years  an  idol 
factory  in  the  Eastern  States  had  been  running 
overtime  in  order  to  meet  the  demands  of  the 
Corean  trade. 

Here  in  this  city,  the  Corean  declared,  the  idol 
factory  was  situated,  and  he  was  travelling  hither 
from  Seattle.  A  ten-line  interview  with  him,  dated 
at  Denver,  appeared  in  Monday's  Press,  a  twelve- 
line  interview,  dated  at  Chicago,  in  Wednesday's, 
and  so  on. 

But  for  a  week  or  more  nothing  had  been  heard 
of  the  Corean.  Nevertheless,  with  boundless  energy 
and  perseverance,  John  set  out  to  find  the  idol  fac- 
tory. 

His  search  was  vain. 

"  There  may  be  an  idol  factory  here,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  am  not  a  good  enough  detective  to  discover 
it." 

"  Does  our  story  fall  through,  then  ?  "  said  Diana, 
as  she  handed  him  his  tea. 

"  I  am  afraid  so." 

139 


John  Cave 

"Isn't  that  too  bad?" 

"  Cheer  up,  pard,"  said  he.  "  We'll  '  f  ako '  the 
story." 

"  But  would  you  dare  to  fake  it  ?  u 

"  Why  not  ?  It  would  harm  no  one.  I  believe 
those  interviews  with  the  Corean  were  fakes  them- 
selves. And  we  sha'n't  need  to  give  the  address 
of  the  factory  nor  the  name  of  its  owner:  we'll  re- 
peat what  the  Corean  said  —  that  such  things  must 
be  kept  hidden,  lest  the  religious  element  in  the 
community  rise  up  and  wreck  the  plant." 

The  one  difficulty  about  the  fake  was  the  photo- 
graphs. But  that  was  no  great  difficulty.  Since 
the  story  would  not  appear  in  any  local  paper,  Diana 
and  her  cousin  agreed  to  pose  for  it,  and  the  two 
girls  met  John  and  a  photographer  the  next  day  in 
a  secluded  museum  that  contained  a  huge  collection 
of  idols. 

They  had  the  museum  to  themselves,  and,  with 
a  few  such  "  properties  "  as  a  chisel,  a  hammer  and 
some  old  paint  brushes,  they  set  to  work.  Four 
photographs  were  made.  In  the  first  the  girls  knelt 
and  painted  a  great  Buddha.  In  the  second  the 
elderly  photographer,  whose  skull  cap  gave  him  the 
true  artist  look,  hacked  with  mallet  and  chisel  at 
a  Ganesh  that  happened  to  have  an  unfinished  as- 
pect. John,  in  the  third,  made  with  clay  a  model 
of  the  monkey  god  Hanuman.  The  fourth  was  a 

140 


John  Cave 

dozen  idols  in  a  row  on  a  shelf,  each  tagged  with 
a  big  price-card. 

The  pictures  all  were  good.  They  illustrated  tha 
fake  well.  An  idol  factory,  if  such  a  place  had 
existed,  would  probably  have  looked  like  this. 
John  ordered  twenty  prints  from  each  negative, 
and,  having  written  his  story,  had  twenty  type- 
written copies  of  it  made. 

All  that  cost  something.  The  photographs  cost 
twelve  dollars,  the  manifolding  eight.  He  realised 
that,  if  he  had  had  his  own  camera,  his  own  type- 
writer and  his  own  copying  machine,  the  cost  would 
not  have  been  more  than  five  dollars  altogether. 

Finally  everything  was  ready,  and  the  twenty 
stories  with  their  photographs  were  mailed  to  th« 
chief  papers  in  the  twenty  largest  American  cities, 
to  be  used,  if  accepted,  on  a  Sunday  three  weeks 
hence.  Ignorant  of  the  prices  that  were  paid  for 
syndicated  matter,  the  young  man  wrote  at  the  top 
of  each  story,  "At  your  usual  rates." 

Three  of  the  twenty  were  returned  in  the  week's 
course,  and  he  sent  them  off  again,  each  to  a  second 
paper  in  the  city  whence  it  had  come  back.  After 
that  he  heard  nothing  more. 

Whether  it  was  good  or  bad  luck  to  have  only 
three  of  his  twenty  stories  returned  to  him  he  could 
not  tell. 

"  It  looks  like  good  luck  to  me,"  said  Diana. 
141 


John  Cave 

"  You  can't  tell,"  he  replied.  "  I  didn't  enclose 
stamps.  Perhaps  the  waste-paper  basket " 

"  Won't  you  be  glad  when  the  fourteenth 
comes  ?  " 

The  fourteenth  at  last  arrived.  He  awoke  early 
and  leaped  out  of  bed  with  a  sudden  grunt  of  con- 
sternation, muttering,  "  This  is  the  fourteenth." 
He  dressed  in  a  frantic  hurry,  frowning  and  shaking 
his  head.  He  could  hardly  shave,  his  hand  trembled 
so.  "  I  mustn't  hope.  There's  no  use  hoping,"  he 
muttered. 

The  nearest  news-stand  was  at  the  railway  sta- 
tion, and  he  reached  it,  breathless. 

"  The  Call,"  he  said. 

But  the  vendor,  smiling  pleasantly,  shook  his 
head.  "  Calls  just  out,  brother." 

With  an  oath  he  went  on  to  the  next  news-stand. 
There  they  had  The  Call,  and  opening  the  enor- 
mous paper  with  awkward  haste,  he  came  at  last 
upon  the  magazine  section,  and  gave  a  gasp  of  joy. 

There  was  Diana,  there  were  the  idols,  there  was 
De  Witt  in -his  skull  cap;  and  these  familiar  pho- 
tographs were  surrounded  with  drawings  In  colour, 
great  drawings  that  filled  the  page,  of  the  idol  fac- 
tory's exterior,  of  the  factory  girls  coming  to  work, 
and  of  many  Coreans  in  devout  attitudes  beneath 
palms,  kneeling  and  offering  sacrifice  to  machine- 
made  gods  with  price-tags  about  their  necks. 
142 


John  Cave 

As  he  walked  slowly  homeward,  he  studied  first 
the  photographs  and  sketches,  then  he  read  the 
story,  of  which  not  one  word  had  been  altered ;  and 
inhaling  with  a  deep  breath  the  cold,  sweet  air  of 
the  winter  morning,  he  murmured  gratefully,  "  Well, 
well,  well !  Incredible !  " 

This  little  success,  the  first  in  his  rather  dreary, 
hopeless  life,  filled  him  with  joy.  For  the  first 
time  he  tasted  the  bracing  joy  that  comes  from  suc- 
cessful work. 

He  got  a  Pittsburg  and  a  Newark  paper  in  the 
afternoon,  and  found  that  they  too  had  used  the 
story.  And  the  next  day  the  Western  papers  be- 
gan to  come  in.  From  Chicago,  from  Detroit,  from 
St.  Louis,  from  Cincinnati  they  came,  and  the  story 
was  in  all.  The  Southern  papers  had  used  it  as 
well  —  Louisville,  New  Orleans,  Memphis,  At- 
lanta—  and  the  papers  of  the  Far  West,  Kansas 
City,  Los  Angeles,  San  Francisco.  By  the  end  of 
the  week,  in  fine,  he  found  that  sixteen  of  his  twenty 
stories  had  been  printed. 

Then  came  the  cheques :  twenty  dollars  from  New 
York,  eighteen  from  Chicago,  ten  from  San  Fran- 
cisco, ten  from  Philadelphia,  five  from  New  Or- 
leans, fifteen  from  Los  Angeles,  and  so  on.  The 
cheques  altogether  amounted  to  a  hundred  and 
thirty  dollars.  This,  less  the  expense,  made  his 
gain  a  hundred  and  ten  dollars  on  the  one  story. 

143 


John  Cave 

A  hundred  and  ten  dollars!  And  it  had  hardly 
meant  two  days'  work.  He  now  perceived  the  as- 
tounding difference  between  working  for  one's  self 
and  working  for  someone  else,  the  difference  be- 
tween keeping  the  profit  of  one's  work  and  selling 
that  profit,  for  a  pittance,  to  some  shrewder  per- 
son. 

And  the  joy  of  it !  After  certain  anxious  delib- 
erations with  Diana,  he  bought  a  big  and  expensive 
camera,  a  good  typewriter,  and  a  good  copying  ma- 
chine, and  at  once  began  to  send  out  other  stories, 
doing  all  the  work  of  them  himself. 

The  work  at  first  was  slow  and  difficult.  The 
camera  embarrassed  him  most.  Setting  it  up  in 
public,  he  often  lost  his  head:  the  tripod  slipped, 
the  great  box  overbalanced,  and  seizing  in  both  arms 
the  towering  apparatus  as  it  fell,  he  staggered  about 
with  it  in  an  uncouth  dance,  while  a  little  circle  of 
bystanders  strove  to  repress  their  smiles. 

Yes,  the  work  was  difficult  and  slow  at  first ;  but 
it  was  always  interesting,  his  skill  grew  apace,  and 
on  the  cost  of  each  story  some  fifteen  or  twenty  dol- 
lars were  saved. 

He  had  plenty  of  time  to  syndicate  one  and  even 
two  stories  a  week  without  neglecting  The  Press. 
These  stories  succeeded.  To  him,  accustomed  to 
work  at  a  salary  no  greater  than  a  typesetter's,  their 
success  appeared  tremendous.  But  none  of  them 
144 


John  Cave 

succeeded  like  the  idol  factory.     On  the  average 
they  only  succeeded  half  as  well. 

But  even  that  meant  an  income  from  syndicating 
twice  and  often  three  and  four  times  greater  than 
his  salary.  He  opened  a  bank  account,  and  his 
balance  rose  with  incredible  rapidity.  His  clothes, 
cut  by  a  good  tailor,  caused  him  to  be  treated  every- 
where with  deference.  He  drank  nothing,  took 
plenty  of  sleep  and  plenty  of  open-air  exercise,  and 
in  consequence  improved  in  looks.  Among  the 
shabby,  stale,  unshaven  Press  men,  loafing  their 
lives  away,  John,  with  his  clear  eyes,  his  ruddy 
brown  colour,  his  fresh  and  elegant  apparel,  worked 
indefatigably.  He  ignored  everybody.  He  no 
longer  felt  the  need  of  making  friends. 

And  lo,  now  that  he  had  no  need  of  friends,  thei 
whole  office  was  turning  friendly.  It  was  pleasant, 
in  lieu  of  looks  of  hatred,  to  encounter  looks  of  re- 
spect ;  in  lieu  of  jeers,  compliments ;  in  lieu  of  mock- 
ing laughter,  appreciative  smiles.  But  the  pleasure 
turned  to  pain  later  on. 

"  Cave,"  said  Gray,  the  rubber  stamp  man,  "  I 
hear  you  are  syndicating." 

"  Yes,  a  little." 

They  were  alone  in  the  local  room.     Gray,  having 
finished  the  editing  of  a  local  story,  impaled  the  half- 
dozen  sheets  of  yellow  copy-paper  on  a  hook,  and 
leaning  back,  gave  the  young  man  a  calm  survey. 
145 


John  Cave 

But  there  was  in  his  approving  gaze  a  certain  .  .  . 
and  John  looked  away,  vaguely  conscious  that  some- 
thing disagreeable  impended. 

"  It  pays  pretty  well,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  you ;  pretty  well." 

"  How  would  you  like  to  take  a  partner  ?  " 

"I  hadn't  thought.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  ask?"  he 
faltered. 

Gray  spoke  with  condescension.  "  I'd  like  to  go 
in  with  you." 

"  Would  you  ?  "  John  moved  vaguely  about  the 
room.  Strange  that  this  interview,  so  painful  to 
him,  pained  Gray  not  at  all. 

"  My  wife  and  I,"  the  fat  copy  reader  resumed, 
"  have  been  talking  it  over.  My  future  here  is 
not  .  .  ."  He  made  an  angry  gesture,  and  his  black 
eyes  suddenly  glittered  with  malice.  "  But  I  have 
twenty-five  hundred  dollars  I  shouldn't  mind  put- 
ting in.  ...  Well,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Capital  isn't  needed,"  John  stammered.  And 
in  the  effort  to  harden  his  heart,  he  recalled  all 
Gray's  insults,  slights,  venomous  hatred;  but  re- 
fusing to  harden,  his  heart  softened  with  pity  for 
this  shabby,  elderly  man  whom  he  was  going  to 
wound. 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  like  capital,"  said  Gray 
easily. 

"  Well,  I'll  think  it  over."  As  John  hastened  to- 
146 


John  Cave 

wards  the  door,  he  saw  an  angry,  astounded  look 
spread  over  Gray's  plump  face.  "  I'll  let  you  know, 
Gray,  if 

"All  right,"  said  Gray  coldly,  and  he  relighted 
the  stub  of  his  cigar  with  a  hand  that  had  all  of  a 
sudden  become  tremulous.  .  .  . 

Then  the  irrepressible  Lawson  came  and  sat  upon 
the  manuscript  littering  John's  desk. 

"  Cave,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  into  the  syndicating 
business.  Give  me  some  advice." 

"What  on?" 

"  Let  me  see.  ...  I  want  to  know  the  kind  of 
stuff  that  sells  best,  how  much  to  charge " 

"  Lawson,  if  you  were  going  to  open  an  up- 
holstery shop  in  Peanut  Street,  would  you  go  for 
help  to  the  nearest  Peanut  Street  upholsterer  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  not  the  way  to  look  at  it.  See 
here " 

But  John  was  firm.  He  refused  to  help  Law- 
son  in  any  way.  Had  he  dreamed  of  asking  help 
from  an  established  rival  when  he  began  himself  to 
syndicate  ? 

Syndicating  now  spread  like  a  contagion  through 
The  Press  office.  All  the  hours  for  which  The 
Press  paid  them  the  men  seemed  to  be  devoting,  as 
secretly  as  possible,  to  syndicate  work.  Here  in  a 
quiet  corner  an  aged  reporter  compiled  long  lists  of 
likely  journals  from  the  newspaper  directory.  There 


John  Cave 

Williams,  the  dramatic  editor,  wrote  a  syndicate 
letter,  "  Personalia  Litteraria  et  Theatricala,"  hiding 
his  manuscript  from  the  inquisitive  with  an  en- 
circling arm.  Gray  examined  surreptitiously  in  the 
hall  a  gelatine  duplicator  that  he  had  just  bought. 
With  a  guilty  air  the  assistant  dramatic  editor  ad- 
dressed a  pile  of  long  envelopes.  Lawson  came  and 
went  on  tiptoe  with  enormous  boxes  of  stationery. 

Lawson,  John  discovered,  was  submitting  a  num- 
ber of  weekly  columns  to  three  or  four  hundred 
newspapers  —  a  woman's  column,  a  column  of  in- 
ventions, a  column  of  men's  fashions.  John  saw 
a  proof  of  the  woman's  column.  Its  first  para- 
graph ran: 

"  Mary  Jane  Smith,  washlady,  Kankakee,  picked 
her  ear  with  a  rusty  hairpin.  Interment  strictly 
private.  No  flowers." 

He  smiled.  So  that  was  Lawson's  idea  of  the 
material  in  demand  for  the  average  journal's  mag- 
azine page.  Well,  he  need  have  no  fear  of  Law- 
son. 

Qayton  took  up  syndicating  in  a  large  way.  He 
opened  a  suite  of  offices,  named  himself  the  "  Inter- 
national News  Association,"  and  engaged  a  pho- 
tographer, a  reporter  and  a  stenographer.  His 
stories,  abundantly  illustrated  with  costly  photo- 
graphs, went  broadcast  over  America,  England, 
France,  Germany,  even  Russia.  Some  of  them 
148 


John  Cave 

sold,  but  Clayton's  expenses  were  enormous,  and 
for  three  months  his  harassed,  desperate  face  con- 
trasted oddly  with  his  gala  attire.  Then  one  fine 
day  his  brow  cleared.  The  International  News 
Association,  bankrupt,  was  no  more. 

Collier  alone  escaped  the  syndicate  fever.  His 
feet  on  his  desk,  he  lay  back,  lazier  than  ever,  in  his 
chair ;  a  newspaper  hid  him  from  the  waist  up ;  so, 
it  seemed,  his  life  passed. 

But  he  knew  what  was  going  on,  and  with  a  sour 
laugh  he  would  say : 

"  Lawson,  if  you  can  spare  The  Press  a  half-hour 
from  your  syndicate,  do  Councils  to-day." 

•In  that  sarcastic  and  annoying  manner  he  now 
gave  out  all  his  assignments. 


149 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THEY  were  brutal  and  cruel  words,  but  neverthe- 
less he  meant  them. 

"  If  you  go  abroad  with  that  crowd " 

"  But  I  must  go,  dear." 

"  Your  aunt  wants  to  separate  us,  eh  ?  " 

"  I'll  say  nothing  about  that." 

"  You  junketing  all  over  Europe  with  a  lot  of 
young  men,  and  me  working  here  at  home  like  a 
slave " 

"  But  if  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

"  Then  have  our  engagement  announced." 

"  It  is  impossible.     Auntie  would  not  consent." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  demand  that 
she  marry  him  at  once,  but  he  made  no  such  de- 
mand. For  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  marry;  he 
had  not  yet  saved  enough  money  to  furnish  even 
the  smallest  apartment;  and,  though  his  syndicate 
had  done  well  so  far  .  .  . 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  he  blurted.  "  I  am  on  trial. 
If  I  make  a  success,  you'll  marry  me ;  if  not,  you'll 
throw  me  over." 

Brutal  and  cruel  words,  and  the  young  girl  rose 


John  Cave 

from  her  seat  on  the  fallen  oak.  There  were  tears 
in  her  eyes,  but  she  smiled  bravely. 

"  Good-bye,  John  Cave." 

And  she  hurried  away. 

Slim  grey  columns  uprose  everywhere  out  of  the 
snow.  The  setting  sun  floated,  very  red,  in  the 
liquid  gold  of  the  sky.  Here  and  there  the  forest's 
white  carpet  glowed  with  a  faint  pink  flush. 

Towards  the  sunset,  down  the  still  aisles  of  slim 
grey  columns,  Diana  hurried  over  the  snow.  In 
the  carriage  of  her  shoulders  there  was  something 
suggestive  of  wounds  and  pain. 


CHAPTER  XX 

HE  had  lost  her.  And  with  her  all  hope,  all 
energy,  all  strength  seemed  lost.  How  weak  he 
was!  He  saw  now  how  weak.  She  had  propped 
him  as  certain  plants  must  be  propped,  and  thanks 
to  her  he  had  flourished,  growing  tall  and  vigorous, 
bearing  good  fruit.  But  now  the  prop  was  gone. 
He  swayed  uncertainly  from  side  to  side.  Would 
he  fall? 

He  went  home,  and  taking  a  manuscript  from  his 
pocket,  he  began  to  copy  it  on  the  typewriter.  The 
typewriter  clicked  busily,  and  amid  the  sound  he 
sighed.  But  the  machine  clicked  on,  and,  as  he 
worked,  the  dim  curtains  of  the  dusk  were  drawn 
about  him  silently.  He  bent  forward  to  make  out 
a  word,  sighed  again,  and  rising,  turned  on  the 
lamp.  Then  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  looked  at  the 
typewriter,  frowned.  He  sauntered  to  the  window. 
His  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  gazed  dreamily  at  the 
wistful  evening  sky.  Would  he  fall? 

An  hour  later  he  sat  in  a  cafe  with  a  bottle  of 
champagne  and  a  book.  But  the  wine  failed  to 
cheer  him,  the  novel  would  not  hold  his  mind,  and 
152 


John  Cave 

bidding  the  waiter  set  a  telephone  on  the  table,  he 
rang  up  Prudence. 

"  Prudence,"  he  said,  "  this  is  John  Cave." 

"  What  does  John  Cave  want  with  me?  " 

Her  voice  was  hard  and  cold.  He  had  not  seen 
her  for  months.  He  had  not  thought  of  her. 

"  I'm  lonely.     Will  you  dine  with  me  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  can't.     He's  coming." 

"  Oh,  put  him  off." 

She  hesitated.     Then,  "  All  right,"  she  said. 

He  hurried  home  and  dressed,  and  called  for  her 
in  a  hansom.  Her  maid  met  him  at  the  door  before 
he  could  ring,  and  led  him,  her  finger  on  her  lip, 
into  a  darkened  anteroom. 

"  Wait  here,"  she  said.     "  He's  with  her." 

From  the  library  came  the  sound  of  voices,  the 
guttural,  coarse  notes  of  a  man's  voice,  the  clear 
and  silvery  notes  of  the  voice  of  a  girl.  The  man, 
enraged,  stormed.  The  girl's  replies  were  disdain- 
ful and  calm.  Suddenly  John  started,  shuddering 
with  disgust.  The  man  had  begun  to  weep. 

Drawing  the  curtain  back  a  little,  he  peered 
cautiously  into  the  room. 

A  fat  man  was  bowed  forward  on  the  seat  of  the 
lit  clos,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  in  his 
hands.  Amid  his  hoarse  sobs  and  sighs  he  made 
heartbroken  complaints : 

153 


John  Cave 

"I  wouldn't  treat  a  dog  so."  .  .  .  "Oh,  my 
God !".:."  Have  you  no  pity?  " 

Prudence  sat  in  a  great  arm-chair  of  carved  black 
oak.  She  wore  a  crimson  dressing-gown  of  Jap- 
anese silk  embroidered  in  silver  with  huge  storks. 
A  cigarette  hung  from  between  her  scarlet  lips. 
Her  knees  were  crossed,  showing  her  little  red  shoes 
and  her  smooth  stockings  of  red  silk,  and  her  hands 
were  clasped  behind  her  head  so  that  the  loose 
sleeves  of  her  Japanese  gown,  fallen  back,  left  her 
beautiful  white  arms  bare. 

She  regarded  the  man  scornfully.  "  You  had  bet- 
ter go,"  she  said. 

He  continued  to  sob.  She  pressed  the  bell,  and 
he  rose  hurriedly  as  the  maid  entered.  Not  too 
grief-stricken  to  pose  before  the  maid,  he  said  in  a 
blustering  tone : 

"  It  will  be  many  a  day  before  you  see  me  here 
again." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  she.  "  But  I  must 
dress  now." 

"  Be  careful,"  he  growled,  "  or  by  God,  girl,  I'll 
turn  you  out  in  the  street." 

"  Go  home,"  she  said.  "  Go  home  to  your  wife 
and  children." 

Splendid  and  insolent  in  her  dress  of  crimson  and 
silver,  her  knees  crossed  and  her  hands  clasped  be- 
hind her  head,  Prudence  sat  in  the  great  chair,  a 
154 


John  Cave 

picture  of  youth  enthroned  and  reigning  cruelly. 
She  laughed  as  the  fat,  bald  man  of  middle  age 
waddled  forth,  and  she  rose  and  held  out  both 
hands  as  John  entered  by  the  other  door. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  you  are  dressed.  Then  I  can 
wear  my  new  gown."  And  she  hurried  away  with 
the  maid. 

He  mixed  a  whisky  and  soda,  lighted  a  cigar- 
ette, and  sat  before  the  fire  with  a  book.  But  he 
did  not  read.  He  sipped  his  sharp  and  bracing 
drink,  he  inhaled  the  aromatic  Egyptian  tobacco, 
he  looked  thoughtfully  into  the  blaze.  Gay  voices, 
fresh  young  laughter  came  from  the  other  room. 
The  loss  of  Diana  did  not  mean  the  loss  of  all 

joy- 
But    the    beautiful    dreams    he    had    had.  .  .  . 
Those  dreams  were  lost.    They  were  to  have  lived 
together  .  .  .  grown  old  together  ...  he  and  she 
.  .  .  grown  old  together.  .  .  . 
"  I'm  ready  if  you  are." 

Prudence,  drawing  on  her  long  white  gloves,  ad- 
vanced in  a  white  dinner-gown  that  made  her  look 
very  tall.  At  her  throat  a  star  of  diamonds  glit- 
tered with  hard,  cold  scintillations. 

John   praised   her   dress.     She  listened  calmly, 
taking  from  a  gold  bonbonniere  a  tiny  morphine 
tabloid,  and  the  maid  threw  over  her  glistening 
white  shoulders  a  long  cloak  of  ermine. 
155 


John  Cave 

The  door  bell,  a  persistent  finger  on  its  button, 
rang  with  a  continuous  tinkle.  Marie  ran  to  silence 
it,  and  soon  they  heard  the  fat  man  storming  at  her 
in  a  wild  voice.  The  door  crashed  to  upon  him,  and 
returning,  Marie  said: 

"  He  swears  he'll  stand  before  the  house  till  he 
gets  in." 

"  He'll  stand  there  all  night  then,"  said  Prudence. 
But  suddenly  she  frowned.  "  Damn  it,  though ; 
that  prevents  our  going  out." 

They  waited  a  half -hour,  but  the  fat  man,  true 
to  his  vow,  kept  watch  on  the  other  side  of  the 
snowy  street,  his  back  against  a  lamp-post,  his  arms 
folded,  smoking. 

"  I  suppose  his  fat  keeps  him  warm,"  John  mut- 
tered angrily. 

Not  daring  to  venture  forth,  they  telephoned,  in- 
stead, an  order  to  the  Westminster,  and  soon  a 
waiter  brought  their  dinner  to  them.  But  it  was  a 
dull  dinner.  Every  little  while  the  fat  man's  ring 
annoyed  them,  and  though  there  was  champagne, 
Prudence  drank  only  mineral  water. 

"  Do  have  a  liqueur  with  your  coffee,"  John  said, 
at  the  dinner's  end,  as  he  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  replied.  She  took  another 
tabloid  from  her  bonbonniere. 

He  sipped  the  honey-laden  liqueur,  then  the  bit- 
ter coffee,  and,  stimulated,  he  began  to  talk.     He 
156 


John  Cave 

told  her  he  had  been  working  very  hard  of  late. 
He  had  drunk  nothing  all  winter  —  had  only 
worked,  worked.  But  now  all  that  was  to  be 
changed.  Hereafter  he  would  mingle  a  little  pleas- 
ure with  his  labour.  One  day  a  week  was  to  be 
devoted  to  pleasure. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  pleasure?"  she  askedi 
gravely. 

"  Being  with  you,"  said  he. 

Her  lip  curled.  She  rose  and  went  wearily  to 
the  hall  window.  "  He  is  still  there,"  she  said  on 
her  return.  "  It  is  snowing  again,  too." 

They  stared  at  the  cloth  in  moody  silence. 

"  This  is  stupid,"  said  he.  "  Where  is  the 
brandy?" 

Prudence  laughed.     "  How  I  know  you !  " 

He  frowned  across  the  table  at  her,  but  her  beauty 
dispelled  his  frown.  Above  the  lovely  brow  the 
soft  dark  hair  was  full  of  shadow,  perfume  and 
mystery.  The  scarlet  lips  curved,  and  the  gaze  of 
the  starry  eyes  was  a  caress.  She  bent  towards 
him,  the  delicate  flesh  swelled  above  the  decollete 
bodice,  and  the  light  ran  wavering  and  gleaming 
over  the  satinlike  surface  of  arms  and  shoulders 
and  neck. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  we  don't  want  to  quarrel. 
I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  I'll  get  in  some  cham- 
pagne, and  you  will  lie  on  the  couch  by  the  fire  .  .  . 
157 


John  Cave 

and  smoke  .  .  .  like  that  other  night.  ...  Do  you 
remember  ?  " 

She  drew  forth  her  lay-out.  "  Ah,"  she  repeated, 
looking  straight  into  his  eyes,  "how  I  know  you, 
John  Cavel" 


158 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SHE  knew  him.  That  was  what  they  were  al- 
ways saying.  How  often  he  had  heard,  heard  till 
it  sickened  him,  the  contemptuous  appraisement,  "  I 
know  you,  John  Cave." 

Well,  he  was,  undoubtedly,  weak;  but  he  was 
strong,  too;  in  short,  like  other  men,  a  mixture. 

Now,  to  prove  his  strength,  he  tried  for  a  month, 
at  odd  moments,  to  get  out  the  syndicate  story  that 
he  had  typewritten  on  the  afternoon  of  his  quarrel 
with  Diana.  He  would  mix  a  quart  of  developer, 
put  a  negative  in  the  printing-frame,  turn  on  the 
lamp,  and  begin  to  expose  and  develop  prints  — 
only,  half  an  hour  later,  inexplicably  bored,  to  de- 
stroy the  unfinished  work  and  seize  his  hat.  .  .  . 
Or  he  would  open  the  copying  machine  and  com- 
mence to  copy  furiously ;  but  a  page  would  go 
wrong,  and  with  an  oath  he  would  rush  out.  .  .  . 
Now,  on  fire  with  energy  and  zeal,  he  hastened 
home,  determined  to  work  as  of  old,  and  at  the 
mere  sight  of  his  lonely  room,  aghast  at  the  thought 
of  toiling  there  all  by  himself,  he  turned  upon  his 
heel.  .  .  .  Again  he  entered  briskly,  saying,  "  I 


John  Cave 

must,  must  work,"  and  throwing  himself  on  the  bed, 
he  slept  for  hours  like  a  log. 

He  sent  out  no  more  syndicate  stories. 

And  his  appearance  changed  rapidly.  He  was  no 
longer  ruddy,  clear-eyed,  elegant,  but  a  pale  and 
listless  sloven  during  working  hours,  and  after  mid- 
night a  noisy  drunkard.  Soon  all  the  money  that 
he  had  in  bank  was  gone. 

The  men  again  despised  him.  There  was  noth- 
ing, they  said,  in  syndicating,  and  at  last  Cave,  too, 
had  found  it  out. 

Then  Norris,  the  managing  editor,  resigned  on 
account  of  ill  health,  and  thus  he  lost  his  only  friend 
on  The  Press.  That  loss  was  not  long  in  making 
itself  felt.  Clayton,  the  new  managing  editor,  gave 
him  nothing  to  do  for  three  days,  and  then  put  in 
his  letter-box  a  note  that  said: 

"  MY  .DEAR  MR.  CAVE, —  After  a  careful  ex- 
amination of  your  work,  I  find  that  for  some  time 
past  it  has  not  been  of  such  quality  as  to  warrant  a 
continuation  of  your  present  salary.  Therefore  I 
am  compelled,  in  justice  to  the  rest  of  our  staff,  to 
reduce  you  five  dollars,  the  reduction  to  go  into 
effect  next  week.  Hereafter,  also,  you  will  be  en- 
rolled on  the  pay-sheet  of  the  local  department,  and 
will  please  report  to  Mr.  Collier.  Yours  respect- 
fully, H.  HERBERT  CLAYTON." 
160 


John  Cave 

He  read  the  note  in  the  front  room,  standing  by 
the  letter-box.  As  soon  as  he  finished  it,  his  face 
burning  with  shame,  he  hid  it  in  his  pocket,  and 
looked  quickly  at  the  other  men.  But  their  heads 
were  turned  away;  perhaps  they  did  not  know. 

Clayton,  in  a  blue  frock  coat  and  a  brown  som- 
brero, sat  at  his  new  desk,  filling  the  room  with  a 
sweet  and  powerful  odour  of  heliotrope  essence. 
He  bustled  among  a  heap  of  letters  and  clippings 
with  a  pompous  air,  proud  of  his  promotion,  and  his 
smooth-shaven  face  gave  him  a  strange,  unfamiliar 
look,  for  he  had  recently  worn  a  great  moustache 
and  beard. 

John  caught  his  eye,  approached  him,  and  said  in 
a  low  voice: 

"  I'm  sorry  you  had  to  do  this,  Mr.  Clayton." 

Clayton  gave  him  a  kindly  smile  of  condescen- 
sion. 

"  You  must  brace  up,  Cave/'  he  said.  "  Show 
them  what  you're  made  of." 

"  I'll  try  to,  sir." 

Then,  to  pull  himself  together,  he  went  out  into 
the  long,  empty  hall,  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down.  He  felt  hopelessly  dishonoured.  What  was 
he  coming  to?  What  would  be  his  end? 

Crushed,  cowed  as  he  was,  he  at  first  regarded 
his  demotion  as  a  just  punishment.  But  in  a  lit- 
tle while  his  humiliation  gave  place  to  bitter,  help- 
161 


John  Cave 

less  rage.  After  all,  he  had  not  worked  badly  for 
The  Press  —  certainly  he  had  worked  better  than 
Clayton,  who  hardly  gave  the  paper  an  hour  a  day. 
But  now  Clayton  had  been  made  managing  editor 
because  his  father  was  the  editor-in-chief,  while 
he  had  been  reduced  because  Norris,  his  one  friend, 
was  gone. 

If  only  he  had  kept  on  syndicating,  if  only  he 
had  not  drawn  all  his  money  out  of  bank,  he  could 
have  told  Clayton  to  go  to  the  devil  with  his  five- 
dollar  reduction,  and  left  the  abominable  place  for 
good.  He  ought,  of  course,  to  leave  now,  but  he 
was  afraid;  he  had  no  money,  and,  moreover,  he 
was  in  debt. 

Wringing  his  hands,  he  paused  before  the  door 
of  the  local  room.  His  heart  beat  so  violently  that 
his  breathing  was  laboured,  like  a  runner's.  He 
swallowed  a  lump  in  his  dry  throat,  and  moistened 
his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  But  he  must  go  in 
some  time.  He  opened  the  door  and  entered. 

It  was  the  same  dusty  local  room,  everybody  with 
a  newspaper  open  at  arm's  length,  the  city  editor 
reading  languidly,  the  reporters  shouting  and  argu- 
ing as,  like  messenger  boys,  they  awaited  their  er- 
rands for  the  afternoon. 

He  paused  by  the  door.  Collier  looked  up  at 
him,  and  then  lowered  his  head  to  escape  the  young 
man's  salutation.  The  reporters  exchanged  know- 
162 


John  Cave 

ing  glances  over  the  tops  of  their  newspapers,  and 
John  sat  down  disconsolately  among  the  unkempt 
band  to  await  the  assignments  that  in  an  hour  or 
two  Collier  would  begin  to  give  out. 

Again  he  watched  Collier  yawn  through  his  be- 
lated reading,  and  again  he  heard  the  reporters,  em- 
bittered by  failure,  rail  at  the  successful  persons 
who  figured  in  the  news.  So  an  hour  passed,  and 
one  by  one  the  men,  their  work  at  last  allotted  to 
them,  thrust  some  yellow  copy-paper  in  their  pock- 
ets and  departed.  John  and  Collier  were  left  alone. 

"  Mr.  Collier,"  said  the  young  man. 

Collier  gave  him  a  frozen  look.    "  Well  ?  " 

"  Clayton  tells  me  I  am  to  report  to  you  here- 
after." 

"Yes;  I  know." 

And  Collier  put  back  crosswise  in  his  mouth  the 
pencil  that  he  had  withdrawn  in  order  to  speak; 
and,  lifting  his  paper  up  before  his  face  again,  he 
resumed  his  reading.  Nothing  of  him  was  visible 
but  his  feet  and  legs  sprawled  across  the  desk-top 
amid  a  litter  of  clippings,  manuscript  and  proofs. 

Another  hour  passed.  It  was  now  four  o'clock. 
From  his  suburban  home  Gray  arrived,  and  the 
city  editor,  leaving  the  local  room  in  Gray's  charge, 
went  out,  not  to  return  till  seven.  It  was  plain  that 
John  would  get  no  afternoon  assignment. 

He  sat  in  the  local  room  in  idleness  till  eight 
163 


John  Cave 

o'clock,  when  Collier,  in  giving  out  the  night  as- 
signments, omitted  him  again.  Then  he  hurried 
forth  for  dinner,  returned  at  nine,  and  sat  in  idle- 
ness till  midnight.  And  so  home  to  his  lonely  room 
with  a  pint  of  whisky. 

That  continued  for  a  week.  For  a  week  he  sat 
in  the  local  room  from  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
till  midnight,  and  not  one  assignment  was  given  to 
him,  and  neither  Collier  nor  his  two  assistants  once 
spoke  to  him.  He  ought  to  have  resigned,  but  he 
had  only  three  dollars. 

Collier  on  Friday  allotted  the  afternoon  assign- 
ments, omitting  him  as  usual,  and  an  hour  later  he 
went  downstairs  and  drew  the  week's  salary  that 
he  had  done  nothing  to  earn.  He  did  not  return  to 
the  local  room.  He  went  out  and  began  to  drink. 

From  one  saloon  to  another  he  passed;  his  de- 
pression soon  gave  place  to  hope.  ...  It  was  well 
that  he  had  lost  Diana,  for  he  was  not  worthy  of 
marriage.  He  would  be  a  vile  scoundrel  to  let  any 
girl  confide  her  life  to  one  so  weak.  ...  As  for 
The  Press,  he  would  return  to  it  no  more.  He 
would  begin  at  once  to  syndicate  again,  and  he 
would  make  the  money  in  his  pocket  keep  him  till, 
a  month  or  so  hence,  the  syndicate  cheques  began  to 
come  in. 

Reckless  and  gay,  he  continued  to  drink,  meeting 
this  acquaintance  and  that,  spending  more  and  more 
164 


John  Cave 

money,  till  finally  only  a  few  dollars  remained,  and 
to  leave  The  Press  was  again  impossible. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  walked  with  uncertain  steps  into 
the  local  room,  and  stood  blinking  in  the  bright 
light.  His  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  glazed,  and  his 
breathing  stertorous.  The  local  room  was  crowded. 
As  through  a  mist  he  saw  Collier  and  Gray  read- 
ing copy,  and  the  reporters  writing  busily  at  their 
desks. 

He  had  not  even  a  desk  in  the  local  room.  He 
looked  about  him,  snorting,  panting,  spied  a  chair 
in  a  corner,  lurched  over  to  it,  and  sat  down  heavily, 
facing  the  busy  room. 

He  sat  there  a  long  time.  He  saw  Gray  turn  and 
regard  him,  then  lean  over  and  whisper  something 
to  Collier.  Occasionally  a  reporter  looked  at  him 
and  grinned.  But  he  frowned  at  the  grinning  face 
till  it  withdrew. 

Gray  got  up  and  went  out,  returning  in  a  mo- 
ment with  Clayton,  the  managing  editor.  Clayton 
looked  at  him.  Through  a  bright  and  confusing 
mist  he  saw  Clayton's  face  full  of  derision  and  scorn. 
He  glared  ferociously  at  it  till  it,  too,  was  with- 
drawn. 

Old  man  Clayton,  the  editor-in-chief,  waddled  in. 
He  regarded  John  stolidly.  His  face,  huge  in  the 
bright  mist,  oscillated  a  little.  The  young  man 
frowned  it  away.  .  .  . 

165 


John  Cave 

He  began  to  feel  drowsy.  A  doze  would  be 
pleasant. 

"  Cave,  clear  out !  " 

The  high,  nasal  voice  made  him  start.  He  must 
have  been  asleep.  With  a  smile  he  regarded  Col- 
lier, who  was  shouting  at  him  from  his  seat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  big  room. 

"  Clear  out,  Cave,  and  don't  come  back ! " 

"  Speaking  to  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  of  course.    Clear  out !  " 

"What?" 

"  Clear  out,  you  drunken  fool !  " 

A  shout  of  mocking  laughter  caused  him  to  gaze 
in  bewilderment  about  the  room.  The  room  was 
full  of  mocking  faces,  and  all  those  mocking  eyes 
gazed  into  his.  Besides  the  reporters,  Clayton  and 
his  father  were  there,  three  or  four  old  leader 
writers,  the  dramatic  editor,  the  assistant  dramatic 
editor. 

Comprehending  at  last  that  he  had  been  dis- 
charged, he  rose  and  put  on  his  hat.  What  did  he 
care  if  he  was  discharged?  Now  was  his  chance. 
He  would  now  tell  them  all  what  he  thought  of 
them  —  them  and  their  miserable  sheet. 

First  he  would  talk  to  Collier.  He  lurched  across 
the  room,  now  grasping  a  desk  to  steady  himself, 
now  resting  his  hand  on  the  bent  head  of  a  busy 
reporter. 

166 


John  Cave 

"  Collier,"  he  said.     "  Collier,  you  lazy  devil 


But  Collier  turned  his  back  upon  him,  and  he 
seized  the  man's  shoulders  to  swing  him  round  in 
his  revolving  chair. 

"  Look  out !  "  cried  a  voice. 

"  Collier,  I  want  to  tell  you " 

Collier  leaped  up  suddenly.  The  young  man 
stepped  back;  he  stumbled  over  something;  and 
Collier  struck  him  a  terrific  blow  on  the  cheek,  and 
he  fell  sidewise  on  a  desk. 

He  rose  to  oppose  the  crowd  that  rushed  upon 
him ;  but  pushes,  kicks  and  blows  knocked  him  this 
way  and  that.  There  were  oaths  and  cries,  the 
crash  of  falling  chairs  and  tables,  and  amid  the 
turmoil  he  heard,  in  a  dazed  way,  his  own  voice, 
feverish  and  high.  He  struggled,  he  shouted,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  felt  only  the  deepest  shame, 
the  deepest  humiliation.  .  .  . 

They  forced  him  to  the  door.  He  clutched  it 
firmly,  why  he  did  not  know.  But  a  very  strong 
hand  seized  him  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  and  he 
was  flung  out  into  the  hall  with  such  violence  that 
he  fell  on  his  face.  Then  the  door  banged  to,  and 
he  rose  and  began  to  brush  the  dust  from  his 
trousers  and  coat.  The  door  opened  again,  some- 
one threw  out  his  hat.  He  picked  it  up,  and,  as 
he  cleaned  it  with  his  sleeve,  he  heard  within  the 
sound  of  excited  voices,  breathless  laughter. 

167, 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  I 

HE  had  pawned  his  camera  and  typewriter,  and 
now,  armed  with  twenty  dollars,  he  was  about  to 
storm  New  York.  From  the  windy  bow  of  the 
ferry-boat  he  gazed  sourly  at  New  York  across  the 
shabby  river. 

New  York  seemed  to  consist  of  eight  or  ten  card- 
board sky-scrapers,  with  some  hundreds  of  low  and 
dingy  buildings  squatting  about  their  feet.  A  paltry- 
looking  place:  nevertheless  it  frightened  him. 

Landing,  he  walked  through  muddy  streets  in 
search  of  a  cheap  room.  Mean  throngs  in  dark 
clothes  hurried  to  and  fro,  intent  as  ants.  Artificial 
rain  fell  in  the  window  of  a  dealer  in  rubber  goods, 
and  a  young  man  in  a  waterproof  coat  paced  amid 
the  downpour.  Three  youths,  salesmen  in  a  flower 
shop,  wore  white  flannels  and  white  straw  hats,  and 
an  attendant  sprinkled  the  sidewalk  with  violet  per- 
fume. A  dozen  men  in  mediaeval  dress  strode  by, 
advertising  a  new  historical  novel.  Could  he  cope 
with  such  enterprise  as  this? 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  secured  a  small,  clean 
room  up  town  for  two  dollars  a  week.  He  got  his 
171 


John  Cave 

luggage  in,  then  dined  for  fifteen  cents,  at  an  oil- 
cloth-covered table,  on  liver  and  bacon  and  fried 
potatoes.  It  was  not  a  bad  meal. 

He  visited  The  Star  office  in  the  morning.  The 
city  editor  of  The  Star,  he  noted  with  a  pang,  was 
younger  than  himself. 

"  Are  you  a  college  man,  Mr.  Cave?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  paper  are  you  with  now  ?  " 

"  Ah  —  er  —  none." 

"  Well,  there  is  no  opening  here  at  present. 
However,  for  a  genius " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  genius." 

"  No,  of  course  not.     At  the  same  time " 

"  Suppose  I  bring  some  samples  of  my  work  for 
you  to  see  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  wish  you  would." 

He  brought  four  samples,  and  was  bidden  to 
come  back  the  next  morning. 

The  next  morning  he  met  at  the  door  of  the 
outer  office  a  boy  with  a  long  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Cave  ? "  said  the  boy,  extending  the  en- 
velope. 

John  snatched  it  and  tore  it  open  hurriedly.  It 
contained  his  samples,  nothing  more.  He  gulped. 

"Well?" 

"  The  city  editor  says  there  is  no  opening,  sir." 

He  found  himself  on  a  bench  in  a  public  square. 
172 


John  Cave 

He  was  hot  with  shame,  and  there  was  a  Star  in 
his  hand.  He  read  the  paper  through  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  Crude,  vulgar  stuff,  for  geniuses  to 
write.  .  .  . 

Eight  papers  that  day  repulsed  him.  The  ninth, 
The  Dispatch,  took  him  on  at  once.  But  The  Dis- 
patch was  Miles's  paper,  and  Miles  was  Prudence's 
friend.  He  had  intended  to  get  a  New  York  berth 
through  his  own  merit  solely,  but  to  Prudence,  after 
all,  his  new  berth  was  due. 

He  dined  well  that  night,  and  after  dinner,  his 
coffee  and  cigarette-case  on  the  table  before  him,  a 
novel  in  his  hand,  he  weighed  life  bitterly  to  the 
music  of  a  Tzigane  band. 

He  had  once  thought  that  only  merit  counted. 
Well,  there  was  even  unusual  merit  in  his  work,  yet 
it  had  failed  to  secure  him  a  humble  reporter's 
place.  But  for  Prudence's  friendship,  but  for  help 
regarded  generally  as  shameful,  he  might  have 
starved  here  in  New  York. 

Merit,  transcendent  merit,  counted  for  nothing 
by  itself,  but  the  most  ordinary  merit,  joined  to  a 
kind  of  hypocritical  ability  to  win  the  liking  and 
esteem  of  the  men  in  the  high  places,  counted  for 
everything. 

He  would  acquire,  he  told  himself,  that  hypo- 
critical ability  (it  should  be  easy),  and  lighting  a 
fresh  cigarette,  he  decided  to  flatter  the  men  over 
173 


John  Cave 

him  on  The  Dispatch  and  at  the  same  time  to  boast 
discreetly  —  to  boast  modestly,  as  it  were  —  point- 
ing out  all  the  excellences  that  would  from  time  to 
time  appear  in  his  own  work. 


174 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  editorial  writers,  the  illustrators  and  special 
writers  of  The  Dispatch  were  the  best  to  be  found 
in  America  —  a  galaxy  of  stars  of  unexampled 
price  and  glitter.  And  The  Dispatch's  editor  was  a 
man  of  genius,  like  Wagner,  like  Velasquez. 

John  Cave  entered  Herkimer's  office  humbly,  yet 
with  a  timid  hope  fluttering  in  his  heart.  For  he 
had  worshipped  Herkimer  from  boyhood;  his  love 
of  Herkimer's  work  was  one  of  the  few  boyish 
loves  that  he  had  not  outgrown ;  and  as  he  diffidently 
advanced,  his  huge  scrap-book  under  his  arm,  he 
hoped  absurdly  that  the  editor  might  admire  his 
stories,  might  feel  a  little  towards  him  as  he  felt 
towards  Herkimer. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Cave  ?  Won't  you  sit 
down  ?  " 

Herkimer,  who  had  been  standing  by  the  win- 
dow looking  out,  turned  and  advanced  gravely.  He 
was  younger  than  John  had  thought,  tall,  healthily 
lean.  The  blue  eyes  were  clear  and  frank;  the 
compressed  lips  could  curve  in  a  gay  and  charming 
smile 

Herkimer's  dress  seemed  elegant  but  odd  to  the 
175 


John  Cave 

young  man,  who  did  not  know  that  it  was  fresh 
from  London,  and  that  in  two  years,  like  all  the 
London  fashions,  it  would  be  adopted  in  America 
in  a  curiously  exaggerated  form. 

John  seated  himself,  the  huge  scrap-book  bal- 
anced on  his  knees.  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Herkimer," 
he  said.  "  I  know  your  work  very  well." 

He  felt  crude  under  Herkimer's  clear  gaze.  And 
the  unwonted  sincerity  and  reverence  in  his  voice 
gave  it,  he  noticed,  a  queer,  high,  drawling  quality, 
a  most  unpleasant  quality,  a  kind  of  whine. 

Herkimer  walked  to  and  fro.  "  What  would  you 
like  to  do  for  us  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Mr.  Miles  submitted  some  of  my  stories  to 
your  Sunday  editor,"  John  replied,  "  and  Mr.  Ap- 
pleton  liked " 

"  But  that  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago," 
Herkimer  interrupted.  "  Mr.  Miles  is  abroad  now. 
You  are  the  first  in  his  list,  but  Appleton  is  no 
longer  here." 

John  drew  a  deep,  unsteady  breath,  and  opening 
the  enormous  scrap-book,  he  said: 

"  In  that  case,  perhaps,  my  scrap-book  will  show 
you  what  I  am  best  fitted  for." 

His  eyes  sought  the  editor's  with  doglike  de- 
votion, but  Herkimer  did  not  look  at  him;  to 
Herkimer  he  was  only  a  dissipated  reporter  who 
176 


John  Cave 

owed  his  introduction  to  some  worthless  girl  or 
other. 

"  I'll  run  over  your  scrap-book.  Come  and  see 
me  again  at  noon  to-morrow,  Mr.  Cave." 

The  young  man,  in  departing,  had  an  impulse  to 
tell  Herkimer  how  deeply  he  admired  him.  He 
wanted  to  say  that  at  college  he  had  bought  The 
Sunday  Times  to  read  Herkimer's  stories  about 
Mars,  and  afterwards  had  traced  him  somehow, 
though  his  work  was  always  unsigned,  from  The 
Times  to  The  Dispatch,  and  for  years  had  not 
missed  one  of  his  wonderful  daily  leaders.  He 
wanted  to  say  that  those  leaders  seemed  to  him 
equal  to  the  work  of  the  world's  greatest  writers; 
not  mere  written  words,  metaphors,  ornaments  and 
flourishes,  but  a  voice;  that  Herkimer  had  so  mas- 
tered the  art  of  expression  that  his  prose,  instead 
of  draping,  blanket  fashion,  his  thought,  or  adorn- 
ing it  as  with  knots  of  ribbon,  was  the  very  thought 
itself  —  a  voice,  simple  and  clear,  speaking  from 
the  page. 

And  he  began,  "  I  want  to  say,  Mr.  Her- 
kimer   " 

But  there  was  the  whine  again,  and  he  paused. 

He  paused,  he  laid  the  great  scrap-book  on  a  table 

too  near  the  edge,  and  it  crashed  to  the  floor.    He 

had  to  kneel  to  gather  up  the  loose  papers  that  had 

177 


John  Cave 

fallen  from  it,  and  kneeling  he  looked  helplessly  up 
into  the  editor's  face. 

Herkimer  regarded  him  curiously.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  saw  in  the  young  man  something  touching, 
something  inarticulate  but  very  sincere. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  gently. 

"  I  want  to  say,  Mr.  Herkimer  ...  to  say  .  .  . 
I  have  admired  your  work  a  long  time  .  .  .  for 
many  years." 

He  rose.     He  opened  the  door,  blushing  hotly. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Cave,"  said  Herkimer,  with  a 
faint  smile. 


178 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  one  of  the  greatest  disappointments  of  his 
life,  on  his  return  the  next  day,  to  find  a  curt  note 
bidding  him  report  to  the  city  editor.  For  he  had 
hoped,  because  he  admired  Herkimer,  that  Her- 
kimer  would  admire  him.  He  had  hoped  for  a 
post  of  honour  on  The  Dispatch. 

Sadly  he  put  the  huge  scrap-book  under  his  arm 
and  took  the  lift  for  the  local  room. 

The  local  room  was  a  place  of  hurry  and  flurry 
and  suspense.  Typewriters  clicked;  messengers 
darted  in  and  out ;  young  editors,  their  sleeves  rolled 
up  over  white,  thin  arms,  plied  enormous  blue 
pencils  frantically.  In  the  local  room  everyone  was 
afraid  of  being  outdone,  of  being  tardy,  of  being 
discharged.  Faces  were  pale  and  anxious.  Hands 
shook. 

And  here  John  Cave  was  enrolled  in  a  band  of 
thirty  or  forty  young  men  who  could  riot  write, 
whose  stories  gave  the  intelligent  actual  nausea. 
But  these  young  men  were  excellent  detectives, 
they  often  beat  the  police  in  ferreting  out  a  crime, 
and  in  gathering  their  facts  there  was  no  law  of 
179 


John  Cave 

delicacy,  of  pity,  of  decency,  that  they  hesitated  to 
break. 

For  Herkimer,  continually  trying  new  methods 
to  increase  The  Dispatch's  circulation,  sought  at 
this  time  readers  of  the  lowest  order  of  intellect. 
To  attract  these  readers  he  would  supply  them  with 
news  articles  treated  in  the  most  vulgar,  maudlin 
and  sensational  manner  —  news  articles  like  the 
novels  popular  among  them  —  and  he  had  recently 
filled  his  local  staff  with  young  men  capable  of  writ- 
ing such  news  articles  with  sincerity. 

And  for  work  like  that  he  had  adjudged  John 
Cave  best  fitted ! 

The  new  reporter  from  the  beginning  made  sixty, 
seventy,  eighty  dollars  a  week.  But  .  .  . 

A  rich  man,  a  church  pillar,  fell  dead  late  one 
night  at  the  residence  of  a  widow,  and  at  eleven 
o'clock  a  sub-editor  said  to  John,  "  It  is  rumoured 
that  the  widow  was  his  mistress.  Here  is  the  ad- 
dress of  his  wife.  Go  to  her,  tell  her  of  her  hus- 
bands' death,  and  find  out  if  the  rumour  about  the 
widow  and  him  is  true." 

A  popular  novelist  of  incredible  deformity,  a 
hunchback  hardly  four  feet  in  height,  was  to  be 
married  to  a  tall,  beautiful  girl,  and  John  was  sent 
to  the  wedding  with  a  hand-camera  in  the  hope 
that  he  might  get  a  snapshot  of  the  bridal  pair  arm- 
in-arm.  He  got  the  snapshot,  but  the  hunchback, 
180 


John  Cave 

hearing  the  click  of  the  shutter,  leaped  on  the  young 
man,  wrenched  the  camera  from  his  hands,  and 
smashed  it  to  pieces  on  the  sidewalk. 

There  is  no  way  of  turning  a  man  out  of  a  house 
that  he  did  not  undergo.  Sometimes  a  butler,  dele- 
gated to  the  task,  would  take  him  by  the  arm  and 
turn  him  out  with  a  certain  dignity.  Sometimes  a 
woman  would  order  him  forth  with  angry  tears. 
Sometimes  a  man  would  push  him  over  the  lintel 
with  both  hands,  try  even  to  give  him  a  parting  kick. 
He  could  not  get  used  to  being  turned  out  of 
houses.  His  agony,  as  he  silently  submitted,  was 
always  intense.  He  always  felt,  as  the  door  crashed 
to,  disgraced  for  life. 

Embittered  by  the  ignominy  daily  heaped  upon 
him,  he  wrote  his  stories  without  pity.  He  handled 
his  living  heroes  and  heroines  as  if  they  were  fictions 
his  mind  had  created.  He  never  dreamed  in  his 
stories  of  holding  back  a  sentence  because  it  might 
hurt.  He  never  considered  the  pain,  needless  and 
cruel,  that  his  characters  would  suffer  the  next  day 
on  reading  what  he  had  written. 

So  the  summer  passed. 

He  stood  on  an  October  afternoon  with  an  illus- 
trator before  the  show-window  of  a  famous  milliner. 
The  window  was  filled  with  beautiful  furs  and 
gowns,  and  as  the  two  young  men  worked  hurriedly, 
a  Frenchman  ran  forth  bareheaded. 
181 


John  Cave 

"  Thieves !  "  he  cried.     "  Thieves !  " 

The  illustrator  drew  John  away.  "  We  must  get 
out  of  this,"  he  said.  "  There'll  be  a  row." 

They  paused  at  the  next  corner.  "  He  doesn't 
want  us  to  steal  his  models,  eh  ?  "  said  John. 

"  And  why  should  he  ?  "  the  illustrator  demanded; 
"  He  employs  designers  at  tremendous  salaries,  and 
as  soon  as  these  designers  create  some  beautiful  new 
fashion,  you  and  I  appear,  sketch  and  describe  the 
fashion  —  steal  it  is  the  right  term  —  and  in  a  week 
it  is  common  property  all  over  the  country.  But 
come,  let  us  go  back  and  try  again." 

They  returned,  the  coast  was  clear,  and  as  they 
bent  over  the  window,  intent  as  ants  upon  their 
work,  a  porter  came  forth  suddenly  and  threw  a 
pail  of  water  over  them. 

"  What  the  devil "  John  gasped.  Wiping  the 

water  from  his  eyes,  he  turned  wrath  fully  this  way 
and  that.  The  porter  with  a  chuckle  had  disap- 
peared, but  a  crowd  was  gathering  fast. 

"  Don't  stand  there !  "  cried  the  illustrator.  A  cab 
was  at  the  curb,  and  he  pushed  John  in  before  him. 
"  Thank  heaven,"  he  said,  as  the  door  closed. 

The  cabman's  scowling  face  appeared  at  the  win- 
dow. "  Don't  set  down  on  them  cushions  o'  mine, 
gents." 

That  evening,  as  he  awaited  in  fresh  clothes  his 
182 


John  Cave 

night  assignment,  John  pondered  The  Dispatch's 
faults.  He  gasped  again  in  the  icy  shock  of  the 
pail  of  water,  but  it  was  a  pail  of  water  merited  by 
his  mean  theft.  .  .  .He  thought  of  the  camera 
torn  from  him  by  the  hunchback  bridegroom,  and  he 
remembered  the  trembling  hands  of  the  poor  lit- 
tle novelist,  his  red,  enraged  face,  and  the  tears 
starting  from  his  eyes.  .  .  .  He  thought  of  the 
widow,  a  widow  of  but  three  hours'  standing,  whom 
he  had  questioned  about  her  dead  husband's  mis- 
tress, and  he  remembered  the  widow's  pale  hor- 
ror of  him  and  his  questions.  .  .  .  He  thought  of 
this  man  and  that  who  had  turned  him  out  of  the 
house.  .  .  .  They  had  all  suffered,  but  he  had  suf- 
fered, too,  doing  these  revolting  things  to  earn  his 
bread. 

And  he  asked  himself  bitterly  if  Herkimer  had 
the  right,  no  matter  how  many  thousands  it  might 
add  to  The  Dispatch's  circulation,  to  inflict  all  this 
ignominy  and  shame. 

"  Mr.  Cave !  "  shouted  a  flurried  young  sub-editor. 

He  advanced  to  the  sub-editor's  desk. 

"  Mr.  Cave,"  said  the  young  man,  "  Addison 
Winthrop  set  out  on  a  Southern  cruise  in  his  yacht 
last  week,  and  it  is  rumoured  now  that  he  took  a 
well-known  society  woman  along  with  him.  Look 
up  Winthrop's  clubs  in  the  Blue  Book.  Maybe 
183 


John  Cave 

some  of  the  clubmen  can  give  you  a  fact  or  two. 
And  go  and  see  Mrs.  Winthrop,  and  find  out  what 
you  can  from  her.  If  a  divorce " 

John  laughed.     "Oh,  hell!" 

The  sub-editor,  affronted,  lo*  Ued  up,  puzzled  in- 
quiry in  his  bright,  excited  eyes 

"  That's  a  pleasant  job  now,  isn't  it  ?  "  John  went 
on.  "  To  ask  a  young  wife  if  it's  true  that  her 
husband  has  gone  off  with  another  woman!  How 
would  you  like  to  go  and  ask  her  that  yourself,  you 
little  mire-snipe  ? ' 

The  sub-editor  frowned.  "  This  is  insubordina- 
tion," he  said. 

"  Oh,"  John  retorted,  "  insubordination  be 
damned ! " 

But  the  sub-editor  was  too  busy  to  quarrel. 
"Really,  Mr.  Cave,"  he  began,  in  an  absent  voice, 
and  his  eyes  roved  over  the  room,  searching  another 
man  for  the  Winthrop  story.  "  Really  ...  ah 
.  .  .  Mr.  Carrol ! "  Already  John  was  forgotten. 

He  returned  to  his  desk  complacently.  It  was  a 
good  thing  to  let  these  coarse  rascals  know  what  he 
thought  of  them  .  .  .  and  he  had  intended  for  some 
time  to  leave  The  Dispatch  anyway  ...  he  had  five 
hundred  dollars  saved.  .  .  . 

On  the  way  out  he  saw  Herkimer  entering  his 
office.     Freedom  plus  five  hundred  dollars  ntede  him 
bold,  and  he  stopped  and  said: 
184 


John  Cave 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Herkimer.  I  am  leaving  to- 
night." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Herkimer  answered.  "  There  was 
promise  in  some  of  your  stories."  He  smiled 
gently.  "  Stop  showing  off,"  he  said.  "  Write 
thinking  of  your  subject  alone." 

This  crumb  of  praise  from  the  great  Herkimer 
put  him  in  a  pleasant  glow.  Nevertheless  he  said 
angrily : 

"  I  had  a  pail  of  water  thrown  over  me  to-day. 
I  keep  asking  myself  why  a  man  like  you  should 
get  out  a  paper  so  unspeakably  vile  as  The  Dis- 
patch." 

Herkimer  frowned,  half  turned  away;  then, 
changing  his  mind,  he  said : 

'''Why  discuss  it?  If  you  have  any  intelligence 
you  must  see  the  reason  for  yourself." 

"  Is  the  trash  to  get  circulation  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Herkimer  impatiently.  "  It  is 
the  bait.  We  catch  them;  then  we  try  to  teach 
them.  The  Dispatch  isn't  all  trash." 

The  young  man's  devotion  surged  back  into  his 
heart,  driving  away  all  rancour  due  to  the  pail  of 
water.  He  forgot  the  deformed  novelist  and  the 
widow,  and  when  he  spoke  again  he  was  aware  of 
that  unpleasant  whine,  caused  by  deep  feeling,  in 
his  voice : 

185 


John  Cave 

"  I  surmised  as  much.  They  say  upstairs  you 
are  a  hypocrite.  But  I  know  better." 

"  I  am  often  misunderstood,"  said  Herkimer. 
"  And  you,  a  clever  enough  lad,  owed  your  intro- 
duction here  to  some  queer  girl  or  other,  and  in  con- 
sequence I  set  you  down  as  rather  hopeless.  I 
didn't  go  over  your  scrap-book,  or  I'd  have  made 
you  a  special  writer,  and  you'd  have  been  spared 
that  humiliating  pail  of  water." 

"  Really?  "  John  stammered. 

Herkimer  nodded;  his  look  was  kind;  and  he 
said,  as  he  held  out  his  hand : 

"  We  must  dine  together  some  time.  And  if  you 
ever  want  to  come  back.  .  .  ." 


186 


CHAPTER  IV 

NOT  needing  immediate  work,  he  got  it;  and  the 
day  after  he  left  The  Dispatch  John  Cave,  seated  in 
the  office  of  Alonzo  Roberts,  wrote  with  pleased 
smiles  an  advertisement  of  the  Z.  Hilary  McMasters 
method  of  increasing  the  height,  a  cartilage-stretch- 
ing method  whereby  the  height  of  any  person  un- 
der sixty  years  of  age  could  be  increased  from  three 
to  seven  inches. 

Alonzo  Roberts  had  begun  business  as  an  adver- 
tisement writer  a  year  ago.  He  had  begun  mod- 
estly; his  bedroom  had  been  his  office;  but  in  six 
months,  so  greatly  had  he  prospered,  the  little  bed- 
room office  had  grown  into  a  Tower  Building  suite. 
This  suite,  furnished  in  bright  yellow  oak,  now 
boasted  an  errand  boy  in  buttons,  a  pale,  thin  book- 
keeper, and  a  beautiful  typewriter  girl  with  golden 
hair. 

Here  John  went  to  work  on  a  profit-sharing  basis 
—  half  profits  on  all  the  advertisements  he  wrote. 
He  was  very  successful.  Roberts  showed  him  the 
way,  and  under  Roberts's  guidance  he  produced  ad- 
vertisements that  were  in  every  respect  like  all  the 
187. 


John  Cave 

other  advertisements  which  overran  America  at 
that  time. 

He  advertised,  for  instance,  Orient  Tooth  Pow- 
der. Orient  Tooth  Powder  was  made  of  tinted 
chalk,  and  it  was  worth  about  six  dollars  a  ton ;  but 
he  advertised  it,  at  twenty-five  cents  an  ounce,  as 
a  powder  made  of  the  betel-nut  of  Ceylon.  But 
here  he  paused.  Did  the  betel-nut  come  from  Cey- 
lon or  from  .  .  .  No  matter:  he  would  not  bother 
to  look  the  detail  up :  and  dipping  his  pen  again,  he 
said  that  the  Ceylonese  had  the  best  teeth  in  the 
world;  they  never  suffered  from  toothache,  and 
when  they  died,  no  matter  what  their  age,  every 
tooth  was  intact.  Why?  He  quoted  from  Huxley 
a  paragraph  that  he  made  up  as  he  went  along: 

"  Chewers  of  the  betel-nut  have  always  perfect 
teeth  for  the  reason  that  the  meat  of  the  betel-nut, 
a  highly  aseptic  substance,  is  a  perfect  dental  pre- 
servative. Remove  the  colouring  matter,  which 
slightly  stains  the  enamel,  and  add  a  little  chalk, 
which  whitens  it,  and  we  should  have  in  the  betel- 
nut  an  ideal  dentifrice  —  a  dentrifrice  that  would, 
indeed,  soon  rid  the  world  of  dentists." 

Orient  Tooth  Powder,  he  told  the  public,  was 
made  after  Huxley's  recipe,  and  they  who  used  it 
had  Huxley's  word  that  their  teeth  would  never  de- 
cay. 

The  powder  succeeded.  Its  manufacturer  said 
188 


John  Cave 

that,  as  betel-nut  powder,  it  sold  ten  times  better 
than  it  had  sold  as  ordinary  chalk. 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  pleased  manufacturer, 
"you  are  a  wonder.  And  now  look  here.  I'm 
working  on  a  skin  food  made  of  soap  fat.  Can't 
we  put  that  out  as  Oriental,  too?  .  .  .  call  it  Ab- 
dallah  Cream,  and  say  it's  made  of  the  rich  oils  of 
the  Saharan  date  palm,  or  something  of  that  kind  ? 
You  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Yes,"  said  John  Cave ;  "  I  understand." 

He  advertised  men's  ready-made  clothing, 
though  he  never  called  it  ready-made,  deeming  that 
phrase  to  have  a  cheap  sound,  but  ready-to-put-on, 
or  ready-built,  or  ready-to-wear,  or,  simply,  ready. 
And  wonderful  in  these  clothing  advertisements  was 
his  talk  of  hand-padded  collars,  false  vents  at  sides 
creased  up,  shape-retaining  French  canvas  inter- 
linings,  concave  shoulders,  ripple  skirts,  quilted  hips. 

He  advertised  Puritea,  a  tea  at  twenty  cents  a 
pound,  the  refuse  of  the  warehouses.  He  said  that 
tea  was  at  once  a  food  and  a  stimulant.  He  said 
that  Englishwomen  owed  their  rosy  complexions  to 
the  great  quantities  of  tea  —  some  twelve  or  fifteen 
cups  —  that  they  drank  daily.  He  said  that  the  suc- 
cess of  Krupp,  Curie,  and  Russell  Sage  had  been 
due  to  the  tea  they  consumed,  for  tea  had  enabled 
them  to  double  their  working  hours.  Then,  out  of 
of  his  own  head  again,  he  quoted  Darwin : 
180 


John  Cave 

"  Haggard  from  twenty-four  hours  of  unceasing 
toil  over  the  Andaman  earthworms,  I  drank  three 
cups  of  tea,  and  at  once  felt  as  fresh  and  strong 
as  if  I  had  just  risen  from  a  good  night's  rest. 
With  renewed  energy  I  set  to  work  again,  and 
laboured  on  without  fatigue  for  sixteen  hours  more. 
How  wonderful  a  thing  is  pure  tea !  " 

Chuckling,  the  Puritea  man  said : 

"  Rub  it  in  that  ours  is  the  only  pure  one.  Say 
all  the  rest  are  drugged." 

He  advertised  a  great  many  oatmeals,  cornmeals, 
hominies  and  the  like,  and  of  course  every  one  of 
them  was  pre-digested,  and  the  air  of  the  rooms 
they  were  made  in  was  sterilised  and  filtered,  and 
the  packets  they  were  put  up  in  were  germ-proof, 
and  they  all  developed  the  muscles  like  football  and 
the  brain  like  trigonometry. 

He  prospered,  and  at  the  height  of  his  prosperity 
Alonzo  Roberts  introduced  him  to  Adolf  Wolff. 

"  I've  heard  good  reports  of  you,  young  man," 
Mr.  Wolff  began.  "  Harrington  says  you  doubled 
his  income  with  them  ads  about  his  copper  mine. 
What  was  the  idea?  A  cent  a  share  —  ten  thou- 
sand shares  payable  in  dollar  a  week  instalments! 
Ha,  ha!  Good!" 

"  It  did  go  good,"  John  agreed,  with  a  modest 
smile. 

"  And  Baldy  Walsh  says  he's  making  twenty 
190 


John  Cave 

thousand  a  year  out  of  a  hair  restorer  that  you 
handle." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  you  mean  Scalpene-Dandruffia." 
Wolff  nodded.     Huge  and  sleek,  he  puffed  in  his 
chair,  and  his  great  stomach  made  his  legs  look 
strangely  short,  bulging  out  over  them  nearly  to 
his  knees. 

"  Listen  here,"  he  said,  in  his  rich,  husky  voice. 
"  I  cleaned  up  fifty  thousand  last  week,  and  I  want 
to  take  a  flyer  in  advertisin'.  I  want  to  launch  a 
company.  Everything's  ready  —  directors,  charter, 
everything ;  and  I'm  willing  to  give  you  a  fifty  thou- 
sand dollar  contract  to  advertise  the  stock.  What 
do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Thank  you.    That  is  what  I  say.     Thank  you." 
"  All  right,  then.     Let's  get  down  to  business." 
"  What  kind  of  a  company  is  it,  Mr.  Wolff?  " 
"  It's  a  company  with  a  capital  of  five  million 
dollars  in  one  dollar  shares,  and  it  has  been  formed 
to  build  and  put  on  the  market  home  icemakers." 
"  Home  icemakers  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  said.  Machines  for  everybody 
to  have  in  the  cellar  to  make  their  own  ice  with. 
Like  icecream  freezers,  only  simpler." 

"  By  Jove,  great ! "  cried  the  young  man.  His 
cheeks  flushed,  his  eyes  sparkled.  "  Won't  that  be 
a  stock  to  advertise !  " 

"Won't  it?"  said  Mr.  Wolff,  grimly.    "These 
191 


John  Cave 

home  icemakers  will  cost  from  five  to  twenty-five 
dollars  apiece,  according  to  their  size,  and  they 
will  produce  from  ten  to  a  hundred  pounds  of  ice 
a  day  at  a  cost  of  five  cents  a  hundred  pounds  — 
twenty  pounds  of  ice  for  one  cent.  Everybody  will 
want  them."  Mr.  Wolff  smiled.  "  The  only  thing 
that  worries  me  is,  what  will  become  of  the  poor  old 
Ice  Trust?" 

"  Oh,  don't  let  that  worry  you,"  John  exclaimed. 
"  But  who  is  the  inventor  of  this  wonderful 
machine  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Wolff.  "  We'll  keep  my  name 
out  of  it,  though.  We'll  call  the  inventor  Jabez 
Sparhawk.  He  is  my  entry  clerk." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  it  working.  I'd  get  some  points 
from  it,  you  know  —  some  points  for  my  ads." 

"  All  right ;  you  can  see  it,"  said  Mr.  Wolff.  He 
frowned.  "  It  ain't  quite  perfected  yet.  It  makes 
a  good  grade  of  ice,  only  the  cost  is  sixty-seven 
cents  a  pound.  That's  too  high,  eh  ?  " 

The  young  man  blushed.  He  laughed  uncomfort- 
ably. He  might  have  known  from  the  first  that 
the  home  icemaker  was  a  fraud.  Wolff,  after 
chuckling  a  little,  resumed  in  his  rich  voice : 

"  We  won't  mention  that  the  machine  ain't  per- 
fected. We'll  advertise  it  as  making  ice  at  a 
twentieth  of  a  cent  a  pound  —  twenty  pounds  for 
one  cent  is  the  best  way  to  put  it  —  and  we'll  take 
192 


John  Cave 

our  chance  on  bringing  down  the  cost  to  that  in 
time.  We  ought  to  do  it,  oughtn't  we  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  said  the  young  man.  He  mused 
a  little,  smiling.  "  Could  we  exhibit  the  machine 
making  ice  ?  " 

"  We  might,"  said  Wolff.  "  That's  a  good  idea. 
I'll  look  into  it." 

He  rose  to  go.  "  Roberts  has  all  the  facts,"  he 
panted.  "  Get  a  move  on  now.  Offer  the  stock  at 
a  dollar  a  share  everywhere.  Everywhere." 

With  Wolff's  capital  John  lied  about  the  Jabez 
Sparhawk  home  icemaker  as  he  had  never  lied  be- 
fore. On  all  sides  his  lies  appeared,  and  from  all 
sides  subscriptions  for  the  stock  poured  in.  They 
were  small  subscriptions,  running  from  five  up  to 
fifty  dollars,  and  most  of  them  came  from  dress- 
makers, weavers,  saleswomen,  carpenters  —  postal 
notes  for  money  earned  by  the  hands'  hard  work 
through  long  and  weary  hours. 

In  a  basement  down  town  the  icemaker  was  to 
be  seen  in  action.  It  made  excellent  ice,  and,  since 
no  one  knew  that  every  pound  cost  sixty-seven 
cents,  its  performances  dazzled  the  spectators,  send- 
ing them  home  for  their  savings  at  the  double 
quick. 

In  every  advertisement  appeared  a  full-length 
photograph  of  Jabez  Sparhawk,  frock  coated,  ear- 
nest, striking  his  palm  with  his  clenched  fist;  and 
193 


John  Cave 

in    capitals    beneath    the    photograph    Sparhawk 
said: 

"  Come  in  with  me  on  this. 

"  I  have  made  millions  for  investors,  but  my  Ice- 
maker  is  the  biggest  thing  I  have  invented  yet. 

"  No  one  ever  lost  a  cent  through  me.  If  so, 
I  will  make  it  good. 

"  I  invented  the  electric  fan. 

"  I  invented  the  trolley  car. 

"  I  invented  the  automobile  (gasoline  and  elec- 
tric), just  as  it  is  run  all  over  the  world  to-day. 

"  Those  were  good  inventions,  but  my  Home  Ice- 
maker  will  break  the  record  of  all  of  them  combined, 
and  I  want  you  to  come  in  with  me  on  this  deal,  so 
that  we  can  flood  the  market  in  the  spring,  and  put 
the  Ice  Trust  out  of  business. 

"  Think  of  it !  A  HOME  ICEMAKER !  Like 
an  icecream  freezer,  only  simpler.  And  self-run- 
ning—  no  handle  to  turn.  You  just  fill  it  up  with 
water  before  you  go  to  bed,  and  in  the  morning 
there's  your  cake  of  ice.  A  great  big  cake  of 
crystal  pure  ice,  twenty  pounds  of  it,  for  one  cent. 

"  Remember,  this  stock,  now  one  dollar  a  share, 
jumps  to  two  on  Saturday  night  at  midnight." 

Half-page  advertisements  of  the  home  icemaker 
appeared  day  after  day  in  every  city.     The  public 
194 


John  Cave 

may  have  wondered  why  the  stock  never  jumped  on 
Saturday  night ;  it  may  have  doubted  that  Sparhawk 
was  the  inventor  of  the  trolley  car,  the  automobile 
and  the  electric  fan;  but  nevertheless  it  bought 
eagerly.  In  larger  and  larger  waves  the  subscrip- 
tions rolled  in. 

And  one  night,  as  John  Cave  sat  at  his  desk  read- 
ing and  smoking,  Roberts  laid  before  him  a  cheque 
for  fifteen  hundred  dollars. 

"  The  home  icemaker  campaign  is  over,"  Roberts 
said,  "  and  this  is  your  share  of  the  profits." 

John  took  out  his  cheque-book.  He  regarded  his 
bank  balance  with  a  smile.  Then  he  slowly  added 
the  fifteen  hundred  dollars  to  it.  And  musing  and 
smiling  over  the  resultant  total,  he  murmured: 

"  I  sjiall  be  going  abroad  soon." 


195 


CHAPTER  V 
PRUDENCE'S  telegram  arrived  the  following  week. 

"  In  trouble  please  come  over." 

It  was  noon  when  he  rang  her  bell,  but  the  maid 
said: 

"  She  isn't  up  yet,  sir.     I'll  call  her." 

Sniffing  and  frowning,  he  entered  the  library. 
The  air  was  bitter  —  the  bitter  odour  of  opium  — 
and  the  room  was  in  disorder,  with  cushions  piled  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  empty  coffee  cups  and  plates 
of  half -eaten  fruit  on  the  chairs,  cigarette  stubs 
everywhere.  He  regarded  the  bright  cushions. 
They  were  sprinkled  with  tiny  black  cinders,  the 
charred  and  broken  pills  discarded  from  the  opium 
pipe. 

Prudence  entered,  walking  slowly,  stumbling  a 
little,  with  glazed  eyes.  Her  gown  of  apple  green 
silk  was  so  long  that  it  tripped  her.  Stumbling 
over  a  cushion,  she  laughed  and  lifted  the  gown 
above  her  gilt  shoes.  She  was  thin  and  pale,  and 
the  scarlet  was  faded  from  her  lips. 

"  How  well  you  look,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  I 
196 


John  Cave 

look  far  from  well  myself.  You  can  guess  why." 
And  with  a  rueful  smile  she  indicated  the  disorder 
of  the  room,  and  sat  down  yawning. 

"  Poor  old  girl,"  said  he. 

She  yawned  behind  her  pale  hand.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
know.  We  had  a  rather  jolly  evening.  We  kept  it 
up  till  five." 

"  Till  five !  "  He  regarded  her  curiously.  She 
seemed  almost  asleep  there  in  her  chair.  Then  his 
gaze  wandered  to  the  soiled  plates  and  cups  again. 

"  Stop  looking  like  that,  John  Cave !  " 

"  Does  it  annoy  you  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't  gratify  me."  She  rang  the  bell. 
"  Clear  these  things  away,  please ;  and  bring  me  a 
half  bottle  of  champagne." 

Nestling  in  the  big  chair  in  her  gown  of  apple 
green  silk,  she  waited,  yawning,  gazing  at  him 
drowsily,  smiling  drowsy  smiles.  Her  chin  rested 
on  her  drawn-up  knees,  below  her  knees  her  hands 
were  clasped,  her  gilt  shoes  on  the  chair  seat  peeped 
from  beneath  embroidered  folds. 

When  the  champagne  came  she  rose,  and  with 
supple  strides,  still  stumbling  over  the  long  gown, 
she  advanced  to  the  table  on  which  the  bottle  stood. 
She  unloosed  the  gold  foil  and  the  wire;  with  ab- 
sorbed, considering  eyes  she  manipulated  the  cork 
delicately;  all  of  a  sudden  —  plop  —  the  cork  shot 
out,  and  from  the  bottle  mouth  a  kind  of  fume 


John  Cave 

ascended;  but  of  the  volatile  champagne  itself  not 
a  drop  escaped. 

"  There,"  she  said.     "  Give  me  your  glass." 

He  laughed  awkwardly.  "  Thanks ;  it's  so  early, 
isn't  k?" 

Her  eyes  opened  wide  in  surprise,  but  she  said 
nothing.  She  took  a  great  goblet,  poured  into  it 
an  inch  of  liqueur  brandy,  then  filled  it  to  the  brim 
with  wine.  She  held  the  hissing,  foaming,  amber- 
coloured  draught  high  in  air;  she  regarded  it 
sleepily. 

"  What  a  drink ! "  she  said,  with  a  drowsy  laugh, 
and  she  drank  thirstily,  yet  gracefully,  like  a  stage 
bacchante. 

Then  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks  became  rose,  the 
wonted  scarlet  returned  to  her  lips,  and  her  eyes 
grew  bright  and  clear. 

"  Now  you  are  yourself,"  said  he.  "  What  is 
this  trouble  you  are  in?" 

"  I  am  a  thief,"  she  said.  "  I  have  stolen  a 
thousand  dollars." 

"You?    Impossible!" 

"It  is  true." 

"  How  on  earth  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  He  left  a  thousand  dollars  with  me.     He  was 

going  West  for  a  month,  and  I  was  to  take  the 

money  to  his  broker's  when  he  telegraphed."     She 

paused,  laughing  a  little.     "  I  was  interested  in  a 

198 


John  Cave 

certain  stock  myself,"  she  said.  "  I  expected  it  to 
double  in  two  days.  So  I  invested  his  thousand  in 
my  stock,  and  it  ...  it  was  a  swindle." 

He  paced  the  floor,  frowning.  "  Why  on  earth 
did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Because,"  she  answered  calmly,  "  I  expected  to 
have  two  thousand  by  the  time  the  telegram  came." 

"What  stock  was  it?" 

"  Home  Icemaker." 

"  What !  "  He  paused  before  her,  searching  her 
face.  He  could  not  believe  it. 

"  Are  you  joking  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"Joking?"  She  laughed,  peal  on  peal.  Could 
she  be  joking,  after  all  ? 

"  I  wish  I  were  joking,"  she  said  soberly. 

"  Why  did  you  laugh,  then?  " 

"  You  looked  so  queer." 

"Oh!  ...  Has  he  telegraphed  yet?" 

"  I  expect  a  telegram  to-morrow." 

He  sat  with  bowed  head.  "  What  is  to  be  done  ?  " 
he  muttered.  His  eyes,  clouded  and  irresolute,  sent 
shifty  glances  about  the  floor.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
drew  himself  up,  his  brow  cleared,  and  he  said  in  a 
kind  voice : 

"  I'll  lend  you  the  money." 

"You?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  getting  on." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 
199 


John  Cave 

"  I  am  in  the  advertising  business." 

"  Then  let  me  show  you  my  advertisement." 

She  took  from  a  book  the  half  page  of  a  news- 
paper, unfolded  it,  and  revealed  one  of  his  home 
icemaker  productions. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  she  said.  "What  do  you 
think  of  the  liars  and  thieves  who  would  write  a 
thing  like  that?" 

"  Horrible." 

"  That  is  what  caught  me,"  she  said,  and  laughing 
bitterly,  she  pointed  to  the  line:  "  Remember,  this 
stock,  now  one  dollar  a  share,  jumps  to  two  on 
Saturday  night  at  midnight." 

"  I'll  lend  you  the  money,"  muttered  the  young 
man. 

"  Indeed  you'll  not,"  said  she.  "  If  I  wanted  to 
borrow  money,  it  wouldn't  be  to  you  I'd  come. 
Listen,"  she  went  on ;  "  this  is  what  I  want  you  to 
do.  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  office  of  these  people 
in  New  York,  and  try  to  frighten  them  into  giving 
me  my  thousand  back.  Say  I  know  they're  swind- 
lers. Say  you're  a  newspaper  man,  and  will  ex- 
pose them.  Say  I'll  have  them  arrested.  I'll  sue 
them.  Will  you?" 

"  Of  course  I  will."  He  took  up  his  hat  and 
coat.  "  You'll  get  your  money  back,  never  fear." 

"  But  you're  not  going?  " 

"I  must.  There's  no  time  to  be  lost"  He 
200 


John  Cave 

looked  at  his  watch.    "  I  can  just  make  the  one 
o'clock  train." 

She  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand.     "  How  good 

I         you  are." 
That  night  he  telegraphed  her  a  thousand  dollars 
with  the  explanation : 

"  Frightened  them  easily  into  disgorging." 

And  on  Roberts's  return,  rising  from  his  desk  and 
pacing  the  room,  he  said : 

"  I'm  going  to  give  up  this  business." 

"What  for,  you  ass?" 

"  Too  many  lies." 

"  But,"  said  Roberts,  "  all  advertisement  writers 
lie." 

"Well,  what  excuse  is  that?" 

"A  good  excuse.  For  instance,  it  is  wrong  to 
kill;  but  in  war,  where  everyone  is  killing,  then  it 
isn't  wrong." 

"  I  wouldn't  go  to  war,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  You're  a  queer  mixture.  If  you  leave  me,  what 
will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Return  to  syndicating  again." 

"  Syndicating !     And  you  talk  about  lies  t " 

"  Harmless  lies,  Alonio." 


301 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE  awoke  at  seven,  and  immediately  the  thought 
flashed  through  his  mind: 

"  To-day  I  sail  for  Europe." 

Like  a  catapult  this  joyous  thought  shot  him 
from  the  bed,  and  he  ran  and  looked  out  of  the 
open  window.  How  cold  and  pure  and  sparkling 
was  the  air  of  the  November  morning.  The  roofs 
were  white  with  frost,  the  sun's  gold  rays  slanted 
down  on  the  frozen  grey  mud  of  the  street,  and  the 
mud  already,  here  and  there,  was  turning  soft  and 
black  for  the  day. 

"  Fine  weather  for  getting  off,"  he  murmured, 
stropping  a  razor  briskly. 

His  last  American  breakfast  was  delightful. 
There  was  plenty  of  time,  and  with  a  newspaper 
propped  before  him  he  lingered  over  the  cold  and 
acid  grapefruit,  the  delicately  fresh  eggs,  the  ham 
grilled  in  sweet,  crisp  slices,  and  the  coffee  so 
strong  and  rich  that  a  kind  of  oil  gleamed  on  its 
surface. 

Then  through  crowded  and  sunny  streets  he 
strolled  towards  the  pier,  pausing  now  to  choose 
some  magazines  and  books,  now  to  buy  some 
202 


John  Cave 

cigarettes,  and  as  soon  as  he  got  aboard  the  busy 
boat  he  hurried  with  his  parcels  to  his  stateroom. 

It  was  a  bright  and  spacious  outside  room,  with 
a  table,  a  couch,  even  a  closet.  Changing  his  hat 
for  a  cap,  he  selected  a  novel  from  his  store,  and 
ran  up  on  deck  again,  the  book  under  his  arm. 

The  deck  was  filled  with  people.  A  bell  rang, 
seamen  shouted,  more  than  half  the  people  disem- 
barked, and  amid  a  mournful  blare  of  whistles,  a 
great  fluttering  of  handkerchiefs,  some  tears,  the 
steamer  was  pushed  slowly  out  into  midstream. 
Then  her  tug  drew  free,  and  she  began  to  throb 
with  the  rhythmical  and  powerful  strokes  of  those 
huge  engines  that  for  two  weeks  would  not  cease 
their  labour  day  or  night. 

John,  leaning  over  the  side,  inhaled  with  delight 
the  strong,  pure  wind  that  beat  upon  the  ship  as 
she  moved  down  the  sunlit  river  towards  the  shin- 
ing sea. 

The  great  sea  wind.  .  .  .  The  wild,  pure  sea 
wind.  ...  He  would  never  weary  of  it.  To  him 
it  would  never  be  less  sweet  and  strange  than  now. 
He  stood  day  after  day  bareheaded  in  the  bow,  his 
gaze  roved  over  the  blue  turmoil  of  restless  water, 
the  sun  warmed  him,  the  sea  wind  beat  upon  his 
face,  and  splendid  thoughts,  such  as  music  creates, 
rose  in  his  heart  .  .  .  wild,  beautiful  thoughts.  .  .  . 


John  Cave 

He  had  done  pretty  well  at  syndicating  in  New 
York,  and  in  his  lofty  rooms,  with  their  white  and 
delicate  woodwork  and  their  abundance  of  clear 
light,  the  summer  had  passed  pleasantly  while  he 
made  photographs,  developed  negatives,  type- 
wrote and  manifolded  his  stupendous  and  harmless 
lies. 

Sometimes  he  went  to  see  Prudence.  Though 
still  beautiful,  she  seemed  to  be  growing  thinner, 
paler;  and  when  he  took  her  out  to  dine  she  swal- 
lowed morphine  tabloids  every  half-hour  or  so,  and 
between  the  courses  of  the  dinner  she  withdrew 
yawning  to  the  women's  dressing-room  to  smoke 
cigarettes. 

Once,  on  her  return  from  the  women's  dressing- 
room,  he  said: 

"  Stop  hitting  the  pipe." 

She  smiled  strangely.     "What  if  I  can't ?'' 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"What  if  I  told  you  I  had  tried  and  found  I 
couldn't?" 

He  hesitated  between  anxiety  and  disbelief. 
Blowing  a  cloud  of  smoke,  he  looked  gloomily 
away.  An  orchestra  of  girls  in  red  gowns  was 
playing  the  Marche  Funebre.  Vaguely  depressed, 
he  let  his  head  sink  on  his  bosom. 

"  I  was  only  joking,"  said  Prudence  hurriedly, 
and  she  leaned  forward  across  the  table,  and  laid 
204 


John  Cave 

her  hand  lightly  on  his  for  an  instant.  She 
laughed.  "  I  wanted  to  see  if  you'd  care,"  she 
said,  as  she  withdrew  her  hand. 

"  You  knew  I'd  care,"  said  he.  He  took  a  long 
breath.  He  was  immensely  relieved.  "  Stop  it, 
will  you  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling  at  her. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Then  I  will." 

But  she  did  not.  He  found  her,  the  next  time 
he  came  over,  hiding  away  her  glistening  lay-out. 
He  paused  on  the  threshold,  frowning.  She  looked 
round  and  laughed  as  she  knelt  before  the  drawer. 

"  Caught,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  well,  it  is  none  of  my  business,  I  suppose," 
said  he.  "  Only  ..." 

"Only  what?" 

Still  kneeling,  she  bowed  her  head.  Her  back 
was  to  him.  She  seemed  to  be  intently  listening, 
waiting. 

"Only  what?"  she  whispered. 

"  Only,"  he  said,  "  it  hurts  me  to  see  a  girl  like 
you  ...  so  young  and  ...  it  hurts  me  .  .  ." 

She  rose,  laughing.  "  I'll  stop,"  she  said.  "  I 
mean  it  this  time."  And  still  laughing,  she  lighted 
a  cigarette,  and  drew  the  smoke  deep,  deep  into  her 
lungs,  blowing  it  forth  in  pale  clouds. 

But  she  could  not  stop. 
205 


John  Cave 

"  She  can't  stop,  sir,"  Marie,  at  the  door,  said 
hurriedly  as  she  let  him  out. 

"What?" 

The  trimmest  of  figures  in  her  black  gown,  with 
its  snowy  wristbands  and  broad  white  collar,  Marie 
bowed  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"What?"  he  repeated. 

"  She  can't  stop,  sir.  She  tried  and  tried.  It 
was  pitiable.  And  at  last  she  went  quite  out  of 
her  head.  They  say  to  stop  will  kill  her." 

"How  kill  her?" 

"  The  lungs,  sir.  All  those  girls  who  come  here 
from  Chinatown  have  lung  trouble." 

He  walked  soberly  away.  He  had  sometimes 
wondered  what  in  the  end  became  of  girls  like 
Prudence.  Now,  it  seemed,  he  was  to  know. 

But  he  forgot  her  when  Diana  wrote. 

Diana  wrote  from  Capri.  Her  letter  decided 
him  at  once  to  go  abroad. 


In  a  silent  and  motionless  row,  reclining  on  their 
backs  with  upturned,  immobile  faces,  the  passen- 
gers, wrapped  in  their  bright  rugs,  resembled  a  line 
of  mummies  in  a  museum. 

From  the  galley  puffs  of  warm  air,  laden  with 
stale  odours  of  food,  floated  sluggishly  about  them, 
206 


John  Cave 

and,  a  little  seasick,  they  grew  pale,  their  nostrils 
quivered,  and  they  gulped. 

They  sailed  on  a  cold  day,  amid  sharp  winds, 
sunshine  and  ice,  and  forty-eight  hours  later  they 
plunged  into  a  strange  region  of  blue-grey  vapours. 
Mists  hid  the  sky.  Mists  rose  out  of  the  sea.  In 
the  oppressive  heat  they  panted : 

"  Is  this  the  ocean  ?  It  is  more  like  an  African 
swamp." 

"  It  is  the  Gulf  Stream,"  said  the  wiseacres. 
"  It  is  always  so  in  the  Gulf  Stream." 

And  since  there  was  no  wind  to  blow  away  the 
smoke,  the  coal  dust  fell  continually  from  it  —  a 
silent  black  snow  that  settled  in  their  hair  —  and 
their  footsteps  on  the  black  deck  gave  forth  a 
crunching  sound. 

But  as  soon  as  they  drew  out  the  Gulf  Stream 
the  air  became  light  and  dry  again,  the  coal  dust 
disappeared,  and  the  sun  shone  from  a  sky  of  pure 
and  stainless  blue.  Soon  the  bright  November  days 
were  like  June  days  at  home. 

Naples  drew  near,  and  the  passengers  talked  only 
of  tips.  Everywhere  little  groups  debated  in  low 
tones  the  proper  tip  to  give  the  deck  steward,  the 
tip  for  the  stateroom  steward,  what  the  bath 
steward  should  get,  and  what  the  boots. 

At  last,  their  tips  all  distributed,  they  disem- 
207 


John  Cave 

barked.  A  whirlwind  of  cries  and  dust  received 
them.  One  by  one,  with  their  parcels,  they  were 
swallowed  up  in  a  mob  of  raving  Neapolitan  scare- 
crows. 

As  John  Cave  stepped  on  the  quay,  one  man 
tore  his  typewriter  from  his  grasp,  and  a  second 
seized  his  copying  machine  and  camera.  He  at- 
tempted to  expostulate.  The  men  grinned  and  jab- 
bered in  his  face,  and  with  wild  gestures  turned  and 
plunged  into  the  press.  Following,  he  fought  his 
way  to  a  huge  and  grimy  building. 

Here  the  other  passengers  in  time  arrived. 
They  had  their  hand  luggage,  but  where  were  their 
trunks?  They  loitered  about  for  half  an  hour  or 
so,  consulting  one  another  with  anxious  smiles,  and 
finally  they  plunged  into  the  mob  outside  once 
more. 

Old  ladies,  mild  and  frail,  struggled  among 
ragged  wharf-rats  and  scrambled  over  mountains 
of  boxes.  Feeble  greybeards,  travelling  for  rest, 
strained  at  huge  crates  in  a  desperate  effort  to  see 
the  trunks  beneath.  John  Cave  ran  to  and  fro 
almost  hysterically.  Could  his  boxes  have  been 
left  behind? 

Finally  they  got  their  belongings  assembled  in 
the  vast  and  grimy  hall.  Trunks  and  bags  and 
rugs  lay  everywhere  in  little  heaps,  and  on  each 
208 


John  Cave 

heap  sat  a  tourist,  bedraggled  and  flushed,  wait- 
ing for  the  customs  officer. 

And  in  a  circle  around  them  porters  and  guides 
and  hotel  runners  stormed  fiercely,  with  passionate 
gestures,  in  an  unknown  tongue.  They  regarded 
that  mob  in  silence.  A  wisp  of  cobweb  hung  from 
the  shoulder  of  a  Philadelphia  clubman.  The 
mother  of  an  English  duchess  had  a  black  smear 
across  her  chin.  Seated  in  the  vast  grey  building 
on  their  luggage,  helpless,  bedraggled,  cowed,  they 
resembled  a  party  of  immigrants  in  an  American 
railway  station. 


209 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  LITTLE  steamer  landed  him  the  next  evening 
at  Capri.  The  moon  had  not  yet  risen.  The  is- 
land was  dark  as  a  cave.  He  stumbled  up  a  steep, 
black,  lonely  road,  and  at  last  came  blinking  into 
the  brilliant  court  of  the  Grand  Hotel. 

After  dinner,  guided  by  a  boy  with  a  lantern,  he 
set  out  to  see  Diana. 

Up,  always  up,  the  road  wound,  changing  itself, 
where  the  mountain-side  became  precipitous,  into 
stone  steps,  then  resuming,  as  a  road,  its  upward 
way.  How  steep  and  dark  it  was.  He  panted. 
He  stumbled  continually.  Was  the  villa  among 
the  stars? 

The  moon  rose,  the  blackness  changed  to  vitre- 
ous blue,  and  pointing  upwards,  the  boy  said : 

"  Stellamaris,  signor." 

And  John  saw,  between  himself  and  the  moon, 
many  lighted  windows,  palm-trees  dishevelled  and 
black,  pale,  vague  architecture,  uprising  terraces, 
and  the  faint  gleam  of  statuary. 

The  boy  led  him  in  through  a  gateway  in  a 
clipped  hedge.  They  ascended  from  terrace  to  ter- 
race, mounting  flight  after  flight  of  worn  stone 

210 


John  Cave 

steps.  The  air  was  sweet  with  heliotrope :  helio- 
trope, luxuriant  as  ivy,  entwined  the  stone  balus- 
trades, half  hiding  their  crumbled  carvings. 
Finally  they  came  out  upon  a  broad  piazza  whose 
floor  of  black  and  white  marble  shimmered  like 
ice  under  the  moon. 

A  servant  took  his  name,  and  Diana  came  to  him 
at  once.  Alone,  dressed  in  white,  she  advanced 
with  swift,  girlish  grace.  Her  troubled  eyes  were 
fixed  on  his  timidly. 

And  as  he  went  to  meet  her,  fear,  embarrass- 
ment, doubt,  all  ugly  thoughts  died  in  his  breast, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  profound  reverence,  a 
profound  pity,  for  this  girl  who  put  her  life  con- 
fidently in  his  weak  hands. 

"Dearest,"  he  said. 

"Dearest,"  she  whispered  tremulously. 

Side  by  side  they  paced  the  long  hall.  Its  floor 
of  faded  and  uneven  mosaic  was  covered  with  Per- 
sian rugs,  and  fragments  of  statuary  from  the  im- 
perial villa  were  set  in  the  rose-coloured  stucco  of 
the  walls.  Diana  said  that  as  soon  as  he  had  seen 
her  aunt  they  would  walk  in  the  moonlight  on  the 
balcony.  But  he  frowned,  dreading  her  aunt. 

Yet  the  interview  was  brief.  "  The  young," 
said  Mrs.  Scarlett,  "  think  they  know  best."  She 
regarded  him  with  shrewd,  kind  eyes. 

"I  am  beginning  to  feel  very  old,"  said  he. 
211 


John  Cave 

"  Marriage,"  she  said,  "  is  not  what  the  young 
...  it  is  a  different  thing.  .  .  ."  Her  eyes  con- 
templated something  remote,  hidden  and  inexpli- 
cable. She  hesitated,  frowning;  she  seemed  to  be 
seeking  words  wherewith  to  tell  a  difficult  secret; 
then  suddenly  she  smiled  and  turned  to  her  niece. 
"  But  it  is  pleasanter  on  the  balcony,"  she  said. 

On  the  balcony  the  December  night  was  mild 
like  May.  Far  below  lay  the  sea,  faintly  lumi- 
nous, shivering  in  the  moonlight;  and  behind  the 
villa  a  black  crag  rose  up  into  the  stars. 

"  Tell  me  your  plans,"  said  Diana. 

"Plans!" 

He  clenched  his  fists  and  shook  them  above  his 
head. 

"  Plans !  They  seem  hopeless  now.  I  shall 
add  another  failure  to  my  long  list,  go  broke, 
and  be  sent  home  in  the  steerage  by  some  charitable 
consul." 

"  You  are  the  same  John  Cave." 

"  But  everything  goes  wrong.  We'll  never  be 
able  to  marry." 

"  Nonsense,"  she  murmured  tenderly. 

Taking  heart,  he  told  her  of  the  interviews, 
illustrated  wtih  photographs,  that  he  hoped  to  se- 
cure with  kings,  with  inventors,  poets,  aeronauts. 
They  would  be  difficult  to  secure,  but  he  could  do 

212 


John  Cave 

nothing  at  home  —  he  had  quite  run  out  of  good 
ideas. 

A  turn  of  the  porch  revealed  Naples,  a  bed  of 
golden  light;  and  high  above  Naples  a  cluster  of 
great  lamps  seemed  to  be  threaded  on  a  slanting 
cord.  They  were  red,  yellow,  blue,  green,  a  dozen 
or  more,  strung  one  above  the  other.  Suddenly 
they  united ;  it  was  as  if  the  cord  had  taken  fire ; 
a  tongue  of  flame  curled  up  and  disappeared,  and 
a  shower  of  sparks  sifted  softly  down. 

"  Vesuvius,"  said  Diana. 

"  Vesuvius,"  he  repeated,  pleased  and  awed. 

She  leaned  over  the  balcony.  The  moon  shone 
on  a  thicket  of  orange-trees.  The  ripe  fruit  glim- 
mered faintly. 

"  Do  you  see  the  oranges  ? "  she  said. 
"  Lamps  of  gold  in  a  green  night." 

"  Whose  place  is  that  ?  "  he  asked,  pointing  up- 
ward. 

"  That  is  Mr.  Schuyler's  villa." 

"Peter  Schuyler's?" 

"  The  famous  Peter  Schuyler's." 

"  I  wish  I  had  Schuyler's  money.  I  wonder  why 
he  turned  Englishman  ?  " 

"Why  don't  you  ask  him?" 

The  young  man  laughed.     "  Yes ;  why  don't  I  ?  " 

"  Wouldn't  that  make  a  good  story  for  you  ?  " 
213 


John  Cave 

she  persisted.     "  An  interview  with  Mr.  Schuyler, 
telling  why  he  abandoned  his  country  ?  " 

"  Superb,"  he  said.  "  Tremendous.  Such  a 
story  would  run  over  America  like  wildfire.  It 
would  be  the  making  of  me."  He  laughed  again. 
"But  I  could  never  get  such  a  story,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

In  a  country  of  incredibly  great  fortunes,  Peter 
Schuyler  had  inherited  one  of  the  greatest.  He 
was  as  well  known  as  a  king.  .  .  .  John  thought  of 
his  strange  life.  For  all  his  wealth,  he  had  worked 
hard.  He  had  worked  hard  at  college,  winning 
many  prizes.  He  had  worked  hard  at  letters,  writ- 
ing three  or  four  novels  of  undoubted  merit.  In 
politics  he  had  worked  hard:  he  had  been  in  turn 
a  congressman,  a  senator,  an  ambassador:  and  just 
as  his  appointment  to  a  cabinet  office  seemed  as- 
sured, he  had  incensed  his  country  beyond  measure 
by  turning  Englishman.  .  .  .  Why  had  he  turned 
Englishman?  The  newspapers  had  tried  to  inter- 
view him  on  that  point  in  vain.  Hundreds  of  re- 
porters had  been  repulsed  from  his  door.  Why 
had  Schuyler  turned  Englishman?  That  was  an 
uncovered  assignment  in  every  correspondent's 
notebook.  To  get  that  story  was  every  correspon- 
dent's golden  and  impossible  dream.  .  .  . 

"  I  can't  interview  Schuyler,"  John  repeated. 

"Oh,  you  must  try,"  said  Diana. 
214 


John  Cave 

"  I'll  try.    It  will  be  useless,  though." 

"  I'll  help  you,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Do  you  know  him?  " 

"Oh,  very  well  indeed.    I'll  introduce  you." 

"When?" 

"  To-morrow.    To-morrow  morning." 

He  took  her  hands,  laughing  excitedly. 

"  But  we  are  bound  to  fail,"  he  said. 


215 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"  You  are  a  distant  relative  o*  mine,  you  know," 
Mr.  Peter  Schuyler  said  to  the  young  girl.  "  I 
suppose  it  is  my  duty  to  help  you." 

He  hesitated.  Hope  flickered  in  his  petitioners' 
troubled  eyes.  Leaning  against  his  desk-top,  he 
nodded  and  smiled  at  them. 

"  Your  confidence  has  moved  me,"  he  said.  "  I 
wish  you  success,  speedy  success,  a  speedy  mar- 
riage." 

At  this  they  bowed  slightly,  but  their  clouded 
brows  did  not  yet  clear. 

"  At  the  same  time  .  .  ." 

"  At  the  same  time  ?  "  breathed  Diana. 

Mr.  Schuyler  seemed  a  little  worried,  a  little 
annoyed,  but  he  continued  to  smile  gallantly;  a 
tall,  shambling  figure  in  loose  brown  clothes,  forty- 
five  or  so,  sunburnt  and  ruddy,  with  dark  hair 
brushed  till  it  glistened  like  a  silk  hat. 

"  I  consent,"  he  said  suddenly,  and  with  a  sour 
laugh  he  seated  himself  in  his  desk  chair. 

John  and  Diana  exchanged  a  quick  glance.  Un- 
consciously they  leaned  back  in  easier  postures,  and 
they  exhaled  a  long  breath  —  a  quiet  sigh  —  of 
216 


John  Cave 

relief,  gratitude,  triumph.  For  an  hour  they  had 
argued  and  pleaded,  but  the  young  man  knew  well 
that  it  was  to  Diana,  not  to  him,  their  victory  was 
due.  He  got  out  paper  and  pencil. 

"  I  want  to  thank " 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  Mr.  Schuyler  im- 
patiently. 

Diana  walked  out  on  to  the  balcony.  She  leaned 
her  arms  on  the  sun-warmed  marble  of  the  balus- 
trade and  looked  down.  The  balcony  overhung  the 
cliff,  and  like  a  wall  the  golden-brown  cliff 
dropped  two  thousand  feet  to  the  sea.  She  shud- 
dered: she  seemed  to  be  looking  down  from  a 
balloon.  But  the  colour,  down  there  in  the  cool 
shadow,  the  gold  of  the  cliff,  the  deep,  deep  blue 
of  the  water,  was  ineffably  beautiful.  It  thrilled 
the  heart  like  music.  ...  A  white  gull  flew  by, 
turning  its  head  stiffly  to  regard  her  with  vacant 
eyes. 

"  Why,"  John  was  saying  on  her  return,  "  why 
did  you  renounce  your  American  citizenship  to  be- 
come an  English  citizen  ?  " 

"  Because  England  is  a  free  country,"  Mr. 
Schuyler  answered,  "  and  I  love  freedom." 

"  Isn't  America  a  free  country  ?  " 

"  No.     America  is  a  despotic  country." 

The  pencil  scrawled  busily.  The  young  man 
said: 

217 


John  Cave 

"Who  is  the  despot?" 

"  The  American,"  said  Mr.  Schuyler,  "  is  not 
oppressed  by  one  despot,  but  by  a  hundred.  He 
is  oppressed  by  the  railroads,  by  the  newspapers, 
by  the  trusts  —  a  body  of  cruel  and  wicked  men, 
a  body  of  anarchists." 

"Anarchists?" 

"  Anarchists.  For  they  have  stolen  the  govern- 
ment out  of  the  people's  hands,  and  in  their  own 
ruthless  and  powerful  hands  no  man's  reputation 
or  life  is  safe." 

Mr.  Schuyler  stretched  out  his  long  legs,  and 
clasped  his  long  brown  fingers  behind  his  head. 

"  The  American  newspapers  wrecked  my  uncle's 
reputation,"  he  said,  "and  they  have  done  a  good 
deal  towards  wrecking  mine.  The  railroads  killed 
one  of  my  best  friends.  Embalmed  beef  poisoned 
my  godson  in  Cuba. 

"  The  old-fashioned,  considerate  anarchists,"  he 
went  on,  "  kill  every  century  two  or  three  kings 
whom  they  have  grown  tired  of  supporting.  Our 
ruthless  American  anarchists  kill  every  year  thou- 
sands that  have  been  supporting  them." 

"How?" 

"  In  their  factories,  where  their  hands  either  con- 
tract mortal  diseases  because  the  surroundings  are 
abominably  unhealthy,  or  are  slain  outright  be- 
cause proper  safeguards  are  not  set  about  the  ma- 
218 


John  Cave 

chines.  On  their  railroads,  which  they  keep 
flimsy,  antiquated,  undermanned,  with  what  slaugh- 
ter you  know.  In  their  great  food  plants,  where 
they  adulterate  with  dyes  and  acids  the  foods  they 
prepare,  careless  of  the  deaths  from  poison  that  fol- 
low." 

He  ran  his  hands  up  and  down  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  the  effect  was  as  though  the  nap  of  a  silk 
hat  had  been  rumpled. 

"  They  have  to  choose,"  he  said,  "  between  re- 
ducing the  population  and  reducing  the  profit. 
They  choose  to  reduce  the  population." 

"  What  have  you  got  to  say  about  our  rail- 
roads ?  "  John  asked. 

"  They  are  a  red  stain  on  civilisation.  They  kill 
and  maim  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand  peo- 
ple a  year." 

Very  much  excited,  Mr.  Schuyler  began  to 
pace  the  floor. 

"  Our  railroads  could  be  made  safe,"  he  said. 
"  The  railroads  of  Europe  are  safe.  Yes,  they 
could  be  made  safe  easily.  But  a  safe  raiload 
costs  far  more  to  conduct  than  a  dangerous  one.  A 
safe  railroad  pays  but  a  reasonable  profit. 

"  Our  railroads'  profit  is  exorbitant.     If  they  did 

not  gain  this  profit,  they  could  not  pay  dividends 

on  their  billions  of  dollars  of  watered  stock.    Run 

them  safely,  and  their  exorbitant  profit  would  fall 

219 


John  Cave 

to  a  just  one.  '  Rather  than  suffer  such  a  loss,' 
the  railroads  say,  '  we  will  keep  on  killing  and 
maiming  our  annual  hundred  and  twenty-five  thou- 
sand, for  no  law  has  yet  been  formulated  to  check 
this  slaughter  of  ours/  '] 

"What  about  our  newspapers?"  said  the  young 
man. 

"  Our  newspapers ! "  With  a  loud  laugh  Mr. 
Schuyler  returned  to  his  chair,  and  clasped  his 
hands  behind  his  head  again.  "  Our  news- 
papers ! " 

"Well?"  said  Diana,  frowning. 

"  I  admit,"  said  Mr.  Schuyler,  "  that  the  literary 
quality  of  the  leaders  in  The  New  York  Dispatch 
is  good.  But  taking  our  newspapers  as  a  whole,  I 
think  they  are  the  cruellest,  the  vulgarest,  the  lewd- 
est newspapers  in  the  world.  It  was  their  treat- 
ment of  my  uncle  that  decided  me  to  leave  America 
for  good.  I'll  tell  you  about  it." 

John  bent  over  his  notes,  anxious  not  to  miss  a 
word. 

"  Don't  take  this  down,"  said  Mr.  Schuyler 
sternly. 

"  Oh ! "  The  young  man,  with  an  embarrassed 
smile,  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  Diana  sauntered 
out  on  to  the  balcony.  Mr.  Schuyler  began : 

"  My  uncle  fell  foul  of  the  newspapers  in  his  old 
age.  He  had  lived  a  good  and  noble  life.  His 

220 


John  Cave 

learning  and  his  philanthropy  had  made  him  al- 
most famous.  But  at  sixty-five  he  contracted  an 
unfortunate  marriage. 

"  His  young  wife,  some  months  after  this  mar- 
riage, sailed  for  Cherbourg  alone,  and  the  next  day 
the  reporters  swooped  down. 

"  I  happened  to  be  visiting  my  uncle  at  the  time. 
I  sat  in  his  library  with  him  when  he  decided  to  see 
the  dozen  reporters  waiting  below.  It  was  horri- 
ble, the  half-hour  that  followed. 

"  The  reporters  crowded  into  the  room  with  the 
swagger  that  our  colleges  stamp  on  young  men. 
I  remember  their  soiled  boots,  their  cheap,  pre- 
tentious and  untidy  dress,  and  the  brown  bristles 
sticking  out  of  their  thin,  pale  cheeks.  They 
needed  bathing,  shaving,  shampooing,  brushing,  ex- 
ercise, a  dozen  things. 

"  Those  in  advance  hung  back,  those  behind 
pushed  forward.  They  seemed  a  little  frightened, 
a  little  ashamed,  a  little  amused.  Their  air  sur- 
prised me.  I  thought  they  had  come  merely  to 
ask  my  uncle  something  about  his  new  hospital. 

"  The  thin  old  man  rose.  He  was  exquisite  with 
his  white  hair,  his  fine  linen,  his  orchid  bouton- 
ntire,  his  frock  coat  with  its  old-fashioned  velvet 
collar.  Greeting  the  reporters,  he  resembled  a 
steel  engraving  of  some  famous  statesman  of  the 
past.  But  they  fell  on  him  without  pity. 
221 


John  Cave 

"  '  Is  it  true  you're  going  to  get  a  divorce  ? ' 

"  I  saw  an  odd  flush  stain  his  white,  soft  cheek. 
He  rested  his  trembling  hand  on  the  table.  He 
said  that  he  could  not  discuss  with  them  a  subject 
of  that  nature. 

"  They  nudged  one  another,  whispered,  nodded. 
A  lad  with  red  hair  spoke  up : 

" '  There's  a  scandal  about  you  and  your  wife 
we're  going  to  print  to-morrow.  You  had  better 
let  us  tell  you  what  it  is,  so  that  you  can  deny  it  if 
it  isn't  true.' 

"  He  should  have  told  them  to  go,  but  he  was 
dumbfounded.  Slender  and  straight  in  his  chair, 
he  looked  at  them  helplessly.  They  took  his  silence 
for  consent,  and  began  to  bespatter  him  with  vile 
gossip,  gathered  heaven  knows  where. 

"  *  Are  you  acquainted  with  John  Mack  ?  ' 

"  '  Didn't  your  wife  hire  John  Mack  as  a  groom  ? ' 

" '  They  say  she  used  to  take  all-day  drives  in 
the  country  with  him  alone.  Is  that  true? ' 

"My  uncle  winced  and  shuddered  as  though 
each  question  had  been  a  well-aimed  handful  of 
mud.  I  should  have  interfered.  It  was  all  hap- 
pening, though,  so  quickly. 

"  '  Did  you  make  Mack  your  valet  and  take  him 
out  of  livery  ? ' 

"  '  Did  he  dine  with  you? ' 

"  '  They  say  that  once,  in  your  private  car,  Mack 

222 


John  Cave 

and  your  wife  sat  whispering  in  a  corner  all  the 
evening.  They  say  you  called  the  attention  of  the 
rest  of  the  party  to  what  was  going  on ;  you  said, 
"They'll  both  be  glad  when  I'm  dead."  Is  that 
true?' 

"One  after  another  these  boys  hurled  pitilessly 
their  vile  questions  at  the  old  man. 

" '  I  can  say  nothing,  gentlemen.'  So  he  ended 
the  interview.  *  But  I  beg  you,'  he  muttered,  '  I 
beg  you  not  to  print  this  scandal.' 

"  They  trooped  out  chattering.  With  a  groan 
he  sat  down  before  the  fire.  He  could  not  look  at 
me.  I  could  not  look  at  him. 

"They  printed  all  the  scandal  and  more.  Col- 
umn after  column,  day  after  day,  they  printed  their 
filth. 

"  There  was  very  little  truth  in  it  all  —  some 
truth,  perhaps,  but  very  little.  I  myself  don't 
know  the  history  of  my  uncle's  wretched  marriage. 
It  was  a  subject  that  I,  that  all  his  friends,  never 
thought  of  bringing  up  before  him.  And  yet  those 
reporters  .  .  . 

"  They  made  the  honourable  old  age  of  this  phi- 
lanthropist, this  endower  of  universities,  this 
writer  of  learned  books,  a  laughing-stock  the  coun- 
try over.  He  resigned  all  his  offices.  He  re- 
tired, broken-hearted,  to  his  house  in  the  country. 
There  he  soon  died." 

223 


John  Cave 

Mr.  Schuyler  began  to  pace  the  floor  again. 

"  The  freedom  of  the  press,"  he  said.  "  That 
is  what  the  freedom  of  the  press  has  come  to  in 
America.  We  regard  France  as  vicious.  And  in 
France,  the  other  day,  a  duke  killed  his  wife  and 
her  paramour  and  then  killed  himself,  and  the 
French  press  gave  to  the  tragedy  one  brief  para- 
graph. And  the  clean  French  law  forbids,  in  di- 
vorce court  reports,  the  publication  of  a  single 
name." 

John  mused  a  while.  "  What  other  objection 
have  you  to  America  ?  " 

"  I  object  to  our  '  spread-eagleism.'  " 

"  Spread-eagleism  ?  " 

"  Ignorant  conceit.  In  our  ignorant  conceit  we 
declare  that  America  is  the  greatest  country  in  the 
world.  '  Greatest  in  what  ? '  someone  asks  us. 
'  Greatest  in  everything,'  we  answer  calmly.  What 
a  lie!" 

With  a  chuckle  Mr.  Schuyler  rose  and  lighted 
a  cigarette.  He  pushed  the  box  towards  John, 
and  sauntered  to  the  window.  Standing  there,  his 
eyes  on  the  glittering  seascape,  he  resumed: 

"  What  a  lie !  Are  we  greatest  in  literature, 
in  painting,  in  sculpture,  in  architecture,  in  music? 
Oh,  no.  We  admit  we  are  not  greatest,  but  least, 
in  the  arts.  But,  then,  you  know,  we  incline  to 
sneer  at  the  arts  in  America.  We  incline  to  re- 
224 


John  Cave 

gard  the  arts  as  effeminate.  '  Business,'  we  say, 
'  business,  machinery,  manufactures  —  those  are 
the  important  things  of  life,  and  we  challenge  the 
world  in  them.' 

"  Well,  the  world  can  take  up  our  challenge. 
What  of  motor  cars  ?  Can  America  produce  motor 
cars  like  those  of  France,  Germany,  or  Italy? 
What  of  watches?  If  you  want  a  fine  watch,  don't 
you  buy  a  Swiss  one?  Take  fabrics,  fabrics  for 
men's  clothes,  say.  All  our  fine,  soft,  beautiful 
fabrics  are  imported  from  England.  Take  ship- 
building. The  luxurious,  swift  and  famous  ships 
that  break  the  records  and  charge  the  highest  fares 
are  all  built  in  England  or  Germany.  Take  furni- 
ture. It  is  from  France  that  fine  furniture  comes. 
Take  dressmaking  and  tailoring.  Are  not  the 
Paris  dressmakers  for  women  and  the  London 
tailors  for  men  superior  to  ours,  setting  the  fash- 
ions that  we  burlesque  afterwards  ?  " 

Mr.  Schuyler  turned  from  the  window.  His 
glance  lingered  on  John  Cave's  padded  shoulders, 
and  with  a  smile  he  continued : 

"  So,  interminably,  I  could  go  on,  till  at  last  you 
would  ask  me  in  what,  with  all  our  spread-eagle 
boasts,  we  really  do  excel.  That  question  is  easy 
to  answer.  We  excel  in  counterfeiting.  We  excel 
in  making  worthless  imitations  of  valuable  and 
beautiful  things. 

225 


John  Cave 

"Visit  an  American  cloth  mill.  You  find  that 
it  is  getting  daily  from  Europe  samples  of  new 
ideas  in  cloth  —  durable,  comely  cloth,  woven  of 
pure  wool  and  dyed  with  costly  dyes.  These 
samples  are  hurried  to  a  big  room  in  the  mill,  and 
a  number  of  men  pick  them  to  pieces,  study  their 
construction,  and  proceed  to  make  counterfeits  of 
them. 

"  They  take  old  coats,  cast-off  stockings,  worn- 
out  underwear,  all  manner  of  filthy  rags,  and  grind 
them  up  into  fluff.  They  soak  this  fluff  with  oil, 
and  it  has  then  consistency  enough  to  be  spun  into 
thread.  They  dye  the  thread  with  cheap  dyes  that 
rub  off  on  the  hand  like  flour.  Then  they  weave  it 
gently,  for  it  is  as  frail  as  cobweb,  into  a  counterfeit 
cloth  as  worthless  as  a  counterfeit  half-dollar. 

"  Our  cloth  factories  are  counterfeiting  plants, 
and  they  are  typical  of  our  other  factories.  They, 
too,  are  counterfeiting  plants,  flooding  the  market 
with  counterfeit  boots  made  of  paper,  counterfeit 
brandy  made  of  wood  alcohol,  counterfeit  sausages 
made  of  ground  potato  peelings,  counterfeit  drugs 
made  of  flour,  counterfeit  life-preservers  brought 
up  to  standard  weight  by  means  of  leaden  balls 
concealed  in  the  cork. 

"  Leaded  life-preservers,"  he  slowly  repeated. 
"  Leaded  life-preservers.  .  .  .  The  American  busi- 
ness ideal." 

226 


CHAPTER  IX 

DESPAIR  overcame  him  on  the  long  ride  to  Rome. 
It  was  preposterous  that  he,  an  unknown  foreigner, 
should  dream  of  interviewing  the  Pope  and  the 
King.  Why  not  abandon  everything  and  return 
forthwith  to  America? 

But  he  had  not  enough  money  to  return.  Tak- 
ing out  his  wallet,  he  counted  his  packet  of  bank- 
notes. There  was  a  little  more  than  he  had 
thought,  and  his  spirits  rose. 

The  Schuyler  story  might  be  a  success.  It  had 
been  written  with  the  utmost  care.  He  had  ex- 
pressed all  Schuyler's  views  without  showing  either 
sympathy  or  antipathy  for  them.  The  story  was 
very  calm. 

And  Schuyler  had  read  and  corrected  it,  and 
had  dictated  a  note  of  approval  that  the  young 
man  used  as  preface: 

"  I  certify  to  the  accuracy  of  the  following  in- 
terview by  Mr.  John  Cave." 

He  had  selected  a  thousand  American  papers  to 
which  to  submit  the  story,  and  he  had  been  very 
arrogant  with  these  papers  in  his  letter. 

Why  had  he  been  so  arrogant?  Perhaps  the 
222 


John  Cave 

American  press  would  not  dare  to  print  such  a 
strong  attack  upon  America.  But  he  was  sure  it 
would.  And  he  had  done  well  to  set  the  price  of 
the  story  high  —  from  twenty-five  dollars  down  to 
five  —  nothing  below  five. 

So  hope  returned  again.  He  reproached  him- 
self for  having  thought  of  flight.  What  a  cham- 
pion, to  think  of  flight,  with  his  lady  looking  on ; 
to  strike  one  blow  and  then,  his  lady  looking  on,  to 
turn  and  run  before  even  seeing  the  blow's  ef- 
fect. 

In  Rome  the  next  morning  he  entered  the 
American  Embassy  bravely. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  Ambassador,"  he  said,  pre- 
senting his  card. 

"  Have  you  a  letter  of  introduction  ?  "  the  clerk 
asked. 

"  No.     I  am  a  newspaper  writer." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  clerk.  "  I  guess,  though,  you 
had  better  tell  me  what  your  business  with  the 
Ambassador  is." 

John  cleared  his  throat  and  said  in  a  cracked 
voice : 

"  I  want  the  Ambassador  to  help  me  interview 
the  Pope  and  the  King." 

"  Well,  well !  "  The  elderly  clerk  was  impressed. 
"  Just  wait  one  minute."  And  he  hobbled  away. 

John  waited,  wretchedly  anxious;  but  soon  the 
228 


John  Cave 

door  opened  again  and  a  young  man  of  distin- 
guished aspect  advanced  with  the  visitor's  card  in 
his  hand. 

"  Are  you  the  Ambassador  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  young  man.  "  I  am  the  Am- 
bassador's secretary."  He  drew  nearer.  He 
scanned  the  card,  then  he  extended  it.  "  What  can 
I  do  for  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  want  to  interview  the  Pope  and  the  King," 
John  answered.  "  I  thought  our  Ambassador 
might  help  me  with  advice,  or  introductions 
or " 

"  Oh,  impossible ! "  said  the  young  man.  His 
tone  was  shocked.  He  scanned  the  card  again,  and 
again  extended  it. 

John  took  it  humbly.  This  return  of  a  card,  this 
action  implying  repudiation  and  scorn,  had  often 
been  practised  on  him  in  America.  The  subtle  in- 
sult was  popular  amongst  American  snobs. 

He  took  the  card  in  the  hope  of  gaining  the 
secretary's  favour,  and  thrusting  it  in  his  pocket, 
he  said : 

"  Don't  you  think  I  might  see  the  Ambassador  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  useless,"  answered  the  young 
man. 

"  Can't  you,  then,  tell  me,"  John  appealed,  "  how 
one  gains  an  audience  with " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  said  the  other.    "  Oh,  no! " 
229 


John  Cave 

With  a  curt  nod  he  vanished.  He  was  a  million- 
aire, and  the  power  that  inherited  wealth  gave  him 
he  thought  was  given  him  by  mental  and  physical 
superiority.  He  went  through  life  scattering  in- 
sults among  servants,  waiters,  shop  assistants, 
among  all  the  poor  with  whom  he  came  in  con- 
tact. 

"  Try  the  consul,"  said  the  old  and  shabby  clerk, 
as  John  departed.  "  He'll  fix  you  up." 

But  the  consul  had  gone  to  Tivoli,  and  would 
not  return  till  five.  So  John  went  back  to  his 
hotel. 

His  hotel,  so  splendid  and  cheap,  so  pretentious 
and  unsatisfactory,  bored  him.  In  the  gilded 
magnificence  of  its  spacious,  overheated  public 
rooms,  young  American  women  lounged  all  day 
long  with  Italian  officers.  The  proprietor,  a  hand- 
some man  of  fifty-five  or  sixty,  flirted  continually 
in  the  halls'  recesses  with  a  Detroit  spinster  of 
middle  age.  Insolent  waiters  in  handsome  liveries 
served  rank  tea,  weak  coffee  and  adulterated 
liqueurs  to  the  American  ladies  and  their  Italian 
cavaliers  in  the  great,  gilded  salons,  and  the  pro- 
prietor's wife,  an  old  woman  in  a  yellow  wig, 
moved  among  her  guests  with  an  Italian  officer  al- 
ways at  her  heels,  ready  for  presentation  to  any 
American  girl  who  sat  alone. 

After  luncheon,  at  a  little  table  by  a  window, 
230 


John  Cave 

John  squared  himself  before  his  play  resolutely. 
But  he  could  not  fix  his  mind  upon  the  play.  For 
an  hour,  his  elbows  on  the  manuscript,  his  head 
in  his  hands,  he  brooded.  Then,  with  an  oath,  he 
rose  and  hurried  out. 

In  his  walk  he  passed  palace  after  palace,  cold, 
massive,  gloomy  buildings,  like  jails.  The  Corso, 
narrow  and  sunless,  chilled  him.  How  insignifi- 
cant it  was  to  have  so  great  a  name ! 

But  suddenly  the  aspect  of  the  Corso  changed. 
Elegant  idlers  cropped  up.  Wardens  in  imposing 
liveries,  with  great  staves  upright  in  their  hands, 
flung  open  the  gates  of  the  gloomy  palaces,  and 
forth  from  the  palace  courts  swung  superb  vic- 
torias wherein  lolled  young  women  in  pale  toilets, 
their  hair  dyed  and  curled,  and  their  faces  delicately 
painted. 

In  an  unending  procession,  in  the  narrow,  sun- 
less street,  these  sumptuous  equipages  dashed  back 
and  forth.  The  wardens  with  their  staves  stood 
erect  and  still  before  the  palace  gates.  Their  coats 
reached  their  ankles,  and  their  staves  were  topped 
with  gold  balls.  Old  for  the  most  part,  ancient 
retainers  with  long  white  beards,  day  after  day 
they  gazed  calmly  upon  this  swift,  magnificent 
pageant,  this  revel  of  the  nobility  of  Rome. 

John  in  his  progress  came  out  into  the  sunshine 
of  a  great  square.  A  green  hill  bounded  the 


John  Cave 

square,  and  looking  up,  he  saw  a  splendour  of  sun- 
drenched terraces,  waving  palms  and  plashing 
fountains.  And  on  each  terrace  little  black  figures, 
cut  sharp  against  the  pure  brilliance  of  the  sky, 
leaned  on  stone  balustrades  and  gazed  out  over  the 
eternal  city. 

From  right  and  left  two  roads  wound  up  the  hill. 
The  carriages  ascended  slowly.  Silver  harness 
clinked.  Beautiful,  restive  horses  reared  and 
tossed  back  foam  upon  their  satin  coats.  And  of- 
ten, so  great  was  the  press,  a  dead  halt  came. 
Then  the  idlers  thrust  their  faces  almost  into  the 
carriages,  but  the  ladies  lolled  on  their  cushions, 
calm  and  inscrutable  under  a  thousand  eyes. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  he  found  a  little  park  of 
palms  and  flowers.  A  drive  encircled  it,  a  band 
played  from  a  central  pavilion,  the  carriages  moved 
slowly  round  and  round  the  drive,  and  the  idlers 
lounged  in  the  brilliant  sunshine. 

What  could  this  place  be?  It  was  at  any  rate 
amusing.  He  lingered  in  its  pleasant  gaiety. 

The  band  played  "  Trovatore,"  and  the  young 
women,  circling  slowly  in  their  carriages,  seemed 
an  incarnation  of  the  passionate,  soft  music. 
Dressed  in  pale  hues,  with  their  flushed,  calm  faces, 
their  sables  and  their  violets,  they  reminded  him 
of  actresses.  Only  among  actresses  had  he  ever 
232 


John  Cave 

seen  such  splendid  toilets,  such  lustrous  hair,  such 
red  lips,  and  such  deep,  clear,  mysterious  eyes. 

But  soon  the  sun  sank,  the  air  grew  cold.  Going 
to  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  he  leaned  on  the  balus- 
trade. Rome  lay  below,  and  in  the  west  a  great 
dome  floated,  pale  amid  rosy  clouds.  .  .  . 

"  St.  Peter's !  "  he  murmured.  "  And  the  Fin- 
do  !  "  Pleased  and  surprised,  he  once  more  looked 
about  him. 

But  the  musicians  had  already  gone.  One  by 
one  the  carriages  departed.  The  Pincio  lay  cold 
and  lonely  in  the  evening  light. 

It  was  nearly  five,  and  he  hastened  to  the  Con- 
sulate. The  consul  would  return  no  more  that  day. 

He  saw  the  consul,  however,  the  next  morning. 

"  Such  requests  as  yours  are  made  continually  to 
us,"  the  consul  said.  "  We  couldn't  help  you  unless 
you  had  the  strongest  kind  of  letters.  You  see, 
we  don't  know  you.  You  might  be  an  anarchist 
with  a  bomb." 

"  Give  me  some  advice,  at  least,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  I  have  come  all  the  way  to  Rome  to  get 
these  interviews.  How  would  you  go  about  getting 
them  in  my  place  ?  " 

The  consul  puffed  at  his  cigar  thoughtfully. 

"  Any  friends  here  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  None." 

233 


John  Cave 

"  Where  are  you  stopping?  " 

"  At  the  Julio." 

The  consul  smiled. 

"  Queer  place,  that." 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  queer  place,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  Who  are  all  those  Italian  officers  one  finda 
up  there  ?  " 

"  That's  it,"  said  the  consul.  "  Madame  Julio 
runs  a  kind  of  matrimonial  agency.  She  intro- 
duces poor  Italians  to  American  girls,  and  if  a  rich 
marriage  is  arranged,  I  believe  there's  a  percent- 
age." 

"  I  thought  it  all  very  queer,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  However,  about  my  interviews " 

"  It  all  depends  on  yourself,"  said  the  consul. 
"  It  is  all  a  matter  of  influence." 

"  Would  a  letter  from  Peter  Schuyler  have  any 
influence  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal.  Get  Schuyler  to  say  a  word  to 
the  Ambassador." 

So  he  went  back  to  the  hotel  and  wrote  to  Peter 
Schuyler.  He  was  ashamed,  after  what  Schuyler 
had  done  for  him,  to  ask  another  favour  of  the 
man,  but  with  a  grim  smile  he  told  himself  that  it 
was  perhaps  through  brazen  persistence  such  as 
this  that  worldly  success  was  won. 

That  night  after  dinner  he  set  out  to  see  the 
Princess  Coronia.  She  had  been  a  New  York  girl. 
234 


John  Cave 

Perhaps  she  would  help  a  fellow-countryman.  But 
the  princess  had  gone  to  the  opera. 

He  tried  to  see  her  again  the  next  afternoon. 
She  was  then  motoring.  She  would  be  back,  how- 
ever, at  six.  While  he  waited  he  decided  to  do  a 
little  sightseeing. 

Baedeker  in  hand,  he  climbed  the  Capitoline  Hill, 
and  from  the  eminence  of  the  Via  del  Campidoglio 
looked  down  upon  the  broken  marbles  of  the 
Forum's  raw  brown  hole.  Those  broken  marbles, 
ghastly  as  bones,  failed  to  thrill  him.  Neverthe- 
less, unfolding  his  map,  he  proceeded  to  identify 
various  arches,  temples  and  columns. 

"  The  Temple  of  Concord,  sir.  The  Temple  of 
Castor  and  Pollux.  The  Arch  of  Titus." 

A  young  Italian  stood  beside  him,  pointing  to 
right  and  left  with  a  thin,  ragged  arm.  John 
turned  away,  but  the  young  Italian  followed,  tak- 
ing from  beneath  his  cape  a  box  of  brown  wood 
with  three  or  four  drawers. 

"  Mosaics,  sir  ?     Souvenir  spoons  ?    Brooches  ?  " 

And  he  opened  one  drawer  after  another,  dis- 
playing a  collection  of  cheap  mosaic  jewellery. 

"  No,  thank  you." 

He  hurried  on,  but  three  other  young  Italians 

intercepted  him.     The  first  offered  him  post-cards, 

the  second  offered  albums  of  Roman  photographs, 

the  third  offered  old  coins.     All  three  had  brown 

235 


John  Cave 

wooden  boxes  besides,  which  they  opened  as  a  last 
resort,  imploring  him  to  buy. 

They  annoyed  him.  Amid  their  clamour  he 
could  not  fix  his  mind  on  the  Forum's  dismal  ruins. 
So,  to  escape  them,  he  made  his  way  to  the 
Colosseum. 

But  at  the  Colosseum  again  he  was  tormented. 
Guides,  post-card  vendors  and  the  inevitable  mosaic 
salesmen  with  their  boxes  formed  a  noisy  circle 
about  him.  Wherever  he  went,  this  circle,  like  a 
bodyguard,  enclosed  him.  He  could  not  break 
through  it.  "Hell!"  he  said,  and  jumping  into  a 
carriage,  he  drove  to  the  Vatican,  only  to  find  it 
closed  for  the  day.  But  he  saw  the  interior  of  St. 
Peter's,  and  its  fresh  white  splendour  reminded 
him  of  a  new  opera  house. 

The  Princess  Coronia  had  returned  by  six,  but 
she  declined  to  see  her  fellow-countryman. 

Now,  for  a  fortnight,  John  doggedly  visited  every 
person  in  Rome  who  might,  by  any  chance,  help 
him  to  interview  either  the  King  or  the  Pope.  He 
saw  forty  persons  in  all ;  he  got  many  rebuffs, 
many  promises ;  but  the  promises  were  less  sincere 
than  the  rebuffs.  Still  he  kept  up  heart.  He  was 
determined  to  make  a  good  show  of  perseverance 
before  Diana  and  her  aunt. 

His  funds,  however,  would  not  allow  him  to 
persevere  eternally ;  nor  could  he  see  the  advantage 
236 


John  Cave 

of  eternal  perseverance  in  a  case  so  hopeless  as 
this.  He  had  heard  nothing  of  the  Schuyler  story, 
bQt  then  it  was  still  too  early  to  hear.  His  recent 
letter  to  Schuyler  had  had  no  reply. 

To  Diana,  who  had  gone  to  Nice,  he  now  sent 
reports  that  grew  always  gloomier  and  gloomier. 
In  reply  to  his  last  report  she  telegraphed : 

"  Why  not  come  here  and  do  Monte  Carlo  ?  " 

He  set  out  for  Nice  that  evening.  A  compart- 
ment to  himself,  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  opened  a 
new  Tauchnitz,  and  lay  back  in  his  seat  cosily. 
He  liked  travelling  by  night.  He  liked  to  rush  all 
night  long  through  the  unknown  darkness,  nestled 
in  a  well-lighted  carriage,  a  box  of  cigarettes  at  his 
side,  a  good  book  in  his  hand. 

Rome  had  defeated  him,  but  he  was  retreating 
towards  a  pleasant  place. 

If  only  his  money  were  holding  out  a  little 
better  . 


237 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  sunlight  sparkled  on  ivory-coloured  villas, 
on  palms  and  orange-trees,  on  beautiful  toilets,  beds 
of  flowers,  a  turquoise  sea. 

"  So  this  is  the  Promenade  des  Anglais." 

They  sat  near  the  jetty  in  the  promenade's  best 
hour,  and  the  world's  idlers  strolled  before  them, 
an  army  of  men  and  women  who  spared  no  pains 
to  be,  externally,  beautiful  and  pure. 

A  gallant  show.  On  the  right  a  line  of  ivory- 
coloured  villas,  hotels  and  restaurants ;  on  the  left 
the  sea ;  and,  strolling  up  and  down  the  promenade, 
men  and  women  dressed  as  for  a  stage  garden- 
party. 

"  Isn't  it  different,"  said  Diana,  "  from  a  winter 
day  at  home  ?  " 

"  Think  of  the  home  slush,"  said  he,  "  the  grey 
sky,  the  ulsters  spattered  with  mud,  the  cold,  raw 
winds." 

They  rose  and  sauntered  on. 

"Venez  voir!  Venes  voir!"  a  great  voice 
shouted  from  the  beach. 

"  Oh,"  said  Diana,  "  look !     An  octopus !  " 

Two  fishermen  had  an  octopus  in  a  tub  of  water 

238 


John  Cave 

on  the  beach  below.  One  let  a  tentacle  fasten  on 
his  finger. 

"  Venez  voir,  m'sieu'  'dame ! " 

But  John  caught  sight  of  a  plate  of  coppers  be- 
side the  tub. 

"Don't  look  at  that,"  he  said.  "It  is  top 
horrible." 

And  he  hurried  the  interested  girl  away. 

"Venez  voir  I"  the  fishermen  called  after  them 
in  disappointed  tones. 

Motor  cars  continually  glided  up  to  the  prome- 
nade, and  from  them  women  in  white  descended 
for  the  morning  walk. 

"  There  is  a  Frenchman,"  said  Diana.  "  I  can 
tell  him  by  his  elongated  boots." 

"  Look  at  those  tall,  thin  Englishmen,"  said 
John.  "  The  English  are  the  best-dressed  men  in 
the  world.  How  clean  they  are.  But  they  seem 
cold,  as  if  they  were  not  quite  dry  from  their  last 
bath." 

"  And  that  young  man  is  an  American,"  said 
Diana  mischievously.  "  Americans  always  have 
padded  shoulders,  they  always  need  shaving,  their 
boots  are  always  soiled,  and  their  clothes  are  always 
unbrushed.  Slap  an  American  on  the  back,  and 
he'd  disappear  in  a  cloud  of  dust." 

Noon  sounded,  and  leaving  her  at  her  hotel,  he 
set  out  on  a  shopping  tour.  He  bought  two  eggs, 
239 


John  Cave 

a  loaf,  and  a  mutton  chop.  Then  he  went  back  to 
his  room  and  cooked  his  luncheon  over  a  spirit 
lamp.  It  was  sad  to  cook  and  eat  alone  like  that, 
but  it  could  not  be  helped.  Financially  he  was 
reduced  to  the  worst  straits. 

Mrs.  Scarlett  had  invited  him  to  motor  with 
them  in  the  afternoon  to  Monte  Carlo,  and  in  the 
swift,  luxurious  car  the  ride  in  the  golden  weather 
was  a  delight.  The  road  skirted  the  sea.  White 
villas  gleamed  amid  palm  gardens.  Sometimes,  far 
to  the  north,  they  saw  snow  glistening  on  blue 
peaks. 

At  the  Casino,  strolling  in  halls  of  gilt  and  mar- 
ble, under  great  pale  paintings  of  nude  women, 
they  admired  the  strangely  elegant  gowns  of  the 
slim  girls  who  sauntered,  with  lewd  eyes,  at  the  edge 
of  the  gambling  throngs. 

Mrs.  Scarlett  gave  an  hour  to  roulette.  She 
won  fifty  francs.  "  Now,"  she  said,  "  we'll  have 
some  tea." 

Assenting  with  a  ghastly  smile,  John  led  the  way 
to  a  table  by  a  window. 

"  Two  teas." 

But  the  ladies  remonstrated.  "  Oh,  you  must 
have  some  tea." 

"  No,  no ;  I  never  eat  between  meals." 

"  And  when  I'm  hostess,  too,"  cried  Mrs.  Scar- 
lett. She  pouted  gaily.  Her  pretty  eyes  were 
240 


John  Cave 

shining.  The  roulette  had  made  a  young  girl  of 
her.  "  You  might  break  your  rule  when  I  am 
hostess ! " 

He  frowned:  he  had  not  been  aware  that  she 
was  hostess.  But  it  was  too  late  now  to  change 
his  mind.  They  might  suspect  the  reason. 

Assuredly  some  money  should  soon  arrive. 
The  Schuyler  story  would  appear  on  Sunday.  He 
had  written  Roberts  that  he  was  hard  up,  that  the 
first  fifty  dollars  collected  was  to  be  cabled  to  him. 
How  tired  he  was  of  all  this  solitary  cooking ! 

So  he  mused  as  he  hastened  home  for  dinner 
with  his  hands  full  of  packages  —  beefsteak,  po- 
tatoes, bread,  a  pat  of  butter  in  a  little  bag.  He 
boiled  the  potatoes  and  ate  them  while  the  steak 
cooked.  The  room  was  cold,  the  lamp  gave  but  a 
dim  light,  and  chewing  disconsolately,  his  overcoat 
drawn  round  his  shoulders,  he  mourned  his  wasted 
life. 

That  evening,  from  Mrs.  Scarlett's  box,  he  saw 
Madama  Butterfly.  His  snowy  shirt-front  con- 
cealed a  terror-stricken  heart.  He  was  continually 
fearful  of  some  unforeseen  expense  which,  with 
his  eight  francs,  he  would  be  unable  to  meet. 

Between  the  acts  girls  selling  sweets  and  ices 
went  among  the  audience.  To  escape  them  he 
hurried  from  the  box  at  every  curtain-fall,  explain- 
ing that  he  wished  to  smoke.  He  knew  that  this 
241 


John  Cave 

was  the  wrong  thing  to  do,  and  Diana's  glance  of 
reproach  and  Mrs.  Scarlett's  puzzled  frown  de- 
pressed him. 

But  the  next  morning  he  was  encouraged  by  a 
note  from  Alonzo  Roberts. 

"A  few  of  the  Schuyler  stories  have  been  re- 
turned," Roberts  wrote,  "  but  I  have  received  a 
great  many  flattering  letters.  Altogether  I  think 
you  are  going  to  do  extremely  well.  What  else 
have  you  sent  out  ?  " 

The  letter  was  encouraging  but  vague.  And 
that  question,  "  What  else  have  you  sent  out  ?  "  was 
a  horrible  reproach.  For  he  had  found  nothing  to 
write  about  in  Monte  Carlo,  and  he  had  not  a 
single  idea  for  any  other  stories. 

His  linen  became  a  source  of  great  annoyance. 
Finally  he  was  reduced  to  his  last  collar.  He  wore 
the  collar  as  little  as  possible.  The  moment  he 
entered  his  room  he  removed  it  carefully  and  laid 
it  away  in  a  drawer.  Nevertheless  it  gradually 
grew  soiled. 

Every  morning,  before  putting  it  on,  he  rubbed 
it  with  a  handkerchief.  This  seemed  to  bring  back 
a  little  of  its  pallor.  Once  he  moistened  the  hand- 
kerchief and  essayed  to  wash  away  certain  dark 
streaks.  But  the  moisture  removed  the  collar's 
gloss  and  raised  several  blisters  on  its  surface ;  and 
with  a  low  cry  of  alarm  he  hastily  desisted. 
242 


John  Cave 

At  the  end  he  rubbed  a  little  powder  into  the 
collar  every  morning.  The  powder  undeniably  was 
an  improvement.  Nevertheless  the  collar  looked 
anything  but  fresh.  It  had  a  stale  and  sickly,  a 
kind  of  livid  hue,  and  on  his  walks  he  continually 
thought  of  it  with  pain,  much  as  a  hunchback  thinks 
of  his  deformity. 

He  spent  Sunday  afternoon  with  Mrs.  Scarlett 
and  Diana  at  Monte  Carlo  again.  The  ladies  lost 
a  thousand  francs;  it  was  embarrassing  that  he 
could  not  play  himself.  On  their  departure  the 
chauffeur  met  them  at  the  Casino  door,  a  look  of 
distress  on  his  face.  The  automobile  had  broken 
down.  Should  he  rent  another  to  take  them  back? 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Scarlett.  "  It  is  not  worth 
while.  Here  is  the  electric  tram.  We'll  return  in 
that." 

And  she  boarded  the  car  that  stood  beside  the 
Casino.  John  and  Diana  followed. 

A  terrible  moment  now  ensued  for  the  young 
man.  With  only  seven  sous,  what  was  he  to  do? 
The  car  would  start  in  a  few  minutes.  Could  he 
endure  the  mortification  of  letting  Mrs.  Scarlett 
pay  his  fare? 

"  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  I  forgot  those  post-cards." 
He  rose  hastily.  "  There  is  still  time." 

"  Don't  miss  the  car,"  Diana  cautioned  him. 

"  No  fear,"  said  he. 

243 


John  Cave 

He  hid  himself  in  the  garden  till  the  car  was 
gone.  Biting  his  lip  nervously,  he  asked  himself 
how  far  it  was  to  Nice.  He  had  a  long  walk  before 
him ;  fifteen  miles  or  more. 

The  sun  sank  as  he  left  Monaco,  and  in  passing 
Cap  d'Ail  he  was  very  nearly  run  over.  The  stars 
came  out  at  Eze,  and  the  rest  of  the  walk  was  in 
the  dark:  a  darkness  illumined  fitfully  by  the  great 
lamps  of  onrushing  motor  cars.  He  moved  always 
in  a  cloud  of  dust  created  by  innumerable  cars,  and 
amid  the  lightninglike  flash  of  the  lamps,  the  honk 
and  shriek  of  the  horns,  he  kept  darting  frantically 
from  one  side  of  the  road  to  the  other,  like  a  moth 
that  has  blundered  out  of  the  night  into  a  lighted 
room.  At  Beaulieu  he  finished  his  last  cigarette. 
At  Villef  ranche  he  lay  down  in  despair  under  a  tree 
to  pass  the  night.  But  the  ground  was  cold,  and 
he  soon  rose  and  stumbled  on  again.  A  long,  long 
walk. 

White  with  dust,  at  last  he  entered  Nice.  He 
was  faint  with  hunger  and  fatigue,  yet  what  sort 
of  a  dinner  could  he  get  for  seven  sous? 

A  thought  struck  him.  He  would  have  an  Irish 
stew.  And  pocketing  his  pride,  he  bought  four  sous' 
worth  of  meat,  two  sous'  worth  of  potatoes  and 
onions,  and  a  sou's  worth  of  bread. 

The  Irish  stew  was  a  success.  It  filled  the  frying- 
pan.  It  gave  forth  a  ravishing  odour.  In  his 
244 


John  Cave 

stocking  feet  the  weary  young  man  limped  briskly 
about  the  dim,  cold  room,  and  when  the  stew  was 
done,  he  ate  it  to  the  last  mouthful,  an  overcoat 
across  his  knees.  Then  he  smoked  two  cigarette- 
ends  that  he  had  found  in  the  fireplace,  and  imme- 
diately went  to  bed. 

He  slept  well,  he  awoke  refreshed.  The  sun- 
shine streamed  into  the  room,  and  as  he  shaved,  a 
telegram  arrived. 

He  gave  a  cry  of  joy.  It  was,  no  doubt,  the 
money  from  Roberts.  And  opening  it,  he  read : 

"  Schuyler  interview  excellent  will  you  join  dis- 
patch staff  two  hundred  a  week  herkimer." 

He  began  to  pace  the  floor.  He  made  odd  flour- 
ishes with  the  open  razor  in  his  hand.  "  Hurrah, 
hurrah,"  he  kept  saying  mechanically. 

Then  he  resumed  his  dressing  with  frantic  haste. 
Diana  must  know,  Diana  must  share  his  ineffable 
happiness.  He  was  powdering  his  sallow  collar 
when  he  got  another  message,  this  time  a  notifica- 
tion from  Cook's  that  the  money  had  come. 

Roberts  had  cabled  him  five  hundred  dollars. 
He  wired  his  acceptance  of  Herkimer's  offer. 
Then  he  hastened  to  Diana  and  her  aunt. 

It  was  very  early,  a  beautiful  morning,  and  in 
honour  of  his  success  they  took  an  all-day  motor 
245 


John  Cave 

ride.     In  the  evening  they  saw  Thais  at  the  Casino, 
and  they  supped  at  midnight  at  the  London  House. 

"  So  you  are  having  great  success,"  said  Mrs. 
Scarlett.  She  sat  alone  with  him  before  the  fire  in 
her  salon. 

"  Great  success  for  me,"  he  answered.  "  But  I 
owe  it  all  to  Diana." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that."  In  her  silver- 
coloured  gown  the  slim  and  graceful  woman,  with 
her  young  face  and  grey  hair,  gave  him  a  long, 
clear  look. 

"  It  is  the  simple  truth.  Take  the  Schuyler  in- 
terview. Diana  not  only  suggested  it,  she  got  it  as 
well;  and  the  Schuyler  interview  is  the  cause  of 
everything." 

"  Can  you  keep  it  up,  do  you  think?  " 

"With  Diana's  help.  Her  help  ...  her  influ- 
ence and  advice.  ...  I  can't  tell  you  what  they 
mean  to  me." 

She  smiled  rather  sadly.  Then  she  questioned 
him  about  his  life,  and  he  told  her  his  squalid  story. 

"  But  don't  think  I  liked  it  down  there  in  the 
morass,"  he  ended.  "  None  of  us  like  it  down 
there.  I  wanted  to  climb  out.  But  the  effort,  the 
great  effort  ...  it  seemed  hopeless,  useless  .  .  . 
till  she  came." 

"  Till  she  came,"  said  Mrs.  Scarlett,  with  her  sad 
smile.    "  She  came  —  and  she  will  go." 
246 


John  Cave 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

N  The  girl  she  seems  to  you  will  go.  The  god- 
dess will  go.  Then,  desolate,  will  you  sink  back 
into  the  morass  again  ?  " 

"  The  goddess  will  never  go,"  said  the  young 
man. 

"Ah,  youth!"  She  smiled  and  sighed.  "Ah, 
youth !  youth  1 "  Her  shining  gaze  seemed  full  of 
pity. 


247 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  '  WIFE  '—  I  hate  that  word." 

"  And  I  hate  the  word  '  husband.'  " 

"  Don't  ever  call  me  '  wife.'  " 

"  And  you  must  never  call  me  '  husband/  either." 

In  that  vague  manner  they  expressed  their  loath- 
ing of  the  average  marriage.  Of  the  average 
marriage?  Of  the  universal  marriage.  For  nei- 
ther had  ever  seen  one  marriage  that  seemed 
happy,  desirable,  more  than  endurable.  A  little 
uneasily  Diana  resumed : 

"  Husband  and  wife.  .  .  .  But  we  are  not  to  be 
like  other  husbands  and  wives,  are  we  ?  " 

"  Never.     Never." 

"  But  I  suppose  they  all  say  that  in  the  begin- 
ning, eh  ?  " 

"  It  will  come  true  in  our  case." 

And  in  his  firm  conviction  of  the  immortality 
of  this  passion  of  theirs  which,  like  alcohol  or 
hasheesh,  made  life  a  thing  of  perfect  beauty,  of 
utter  happiness,  he  smiled  easily  at  her  absurd  fear, 
as  one  smiles  at  a  child's  absurd  fear  of  the  dark. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  "  that  we  could  wander  over 
the  world  all  our  lives." 

248 


John  Cave 

"  Ah,  so  do  I,"  said  she. 

"  We  could,  if  the  play  succeeded.  As  for  chil- 
dren .  .  ." 

"  No  children,"  said  Diana,  her  gaze  fixed  on  the 
fire. 

"  No  children,"  he  repeated.  He  glanced  at  the 
delicate  and  pensive  profile  over  which  the  firelight 
flowed,  and  his  heart  melted  with  tenderness.  He 
desired  above  all  things  to  make  her  life  happy,  to 
shield  her  from  pain.  "  Children,"  he  said,  "  would 
rob  us  of  our  freedom." 

"  We  must  keep  free." 

An  attendant  knocked  and  entered  with  a  tele- 
gram. 

"Oh,  can  auntie  be  ill ?" 

He  opened  the  telegram  and  read: 

"  Prudence  very  low  wants  hundred  cable  in- 
structions roberts." 

Prudence  ...  he  had  forgotten  Prudence  .  .  . 
and  under  Diana's  gaze  he  grew  warm  and  uncom- 
fortable. He  could  hardly  look  up. 

"Well?" 

"  Only  a  cable  from  Roberts,"  he  said,  slipping 
the  little  paper  into  his  pocket. 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"  Dear,  don't  ask  me." 

249 


John  Cave 


"Why  not?" 

"  Because,  because 


"  It  is  bad  news,"  she  said.  "  You  think  it  will 
make  me  unhappy.  Has  Herkimer " 

"  No,  it  is  nothing  like  that.  It  is  something 
that  would  pain  you.  Something  in  my  past,  dead 
now,  but " 

Her  face  grew  cold,  scornful,  sad.  "  Let  me 
see  it,"  she  said,  extending  her  hand.  And  he  gave 
it  reluctantly  to  her. 

He  had  put  away  that  episode  of  his  past;  he 
had  slain  and  buried  and  forgotten  it.  But  it  had 
burst  the  bonds  of  death,  the  bonds  of  the  deep 
grave,  the  bonds  of  oblivion,  as  the  past  has  a  way 
of  doing ;  and  now  it  stalked  grinning  into  this  dim 
salon  where  he  sat  with  his  wife  in  the  pure  enjoy- 
ment of  a  beautiful  honeymoon. 

"Who  is  Prudence?" 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  he  answered,  "  for  since  I  am 
going  to  help  her,  you  have  a  right  to  know.  Other- 
wise   " 

"  Why  should  you  help  her?  " 

"  Because  she  has  helped  me.  When  I  was  ill 
she  nursed  me.  She  got  me  my  berth  on " 

"  Were  you  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  you  —  but  —  she  is  not  a  good  girl,  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  doesn't  pretend  to  be  a  chaste  girl." 
250 


John  Cave 

"  Then  you  shall  not  help  the  wicked  creature ! " 

"  She  isn't  a  wicked  creature.  She  is  brave  and 
honourable." 

"Honourable?" 

"  Honourable." 

"  But  you  said  she  was " 

"Unchaste?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Chastity  is  nothing.     There  is  no  such  thing." 

He  hesitated.  From  adolescence  he  had  believed 
that  chastity,  chastity  of  thought  as  of  deed,  could 
not  exist.  And  he  still  held  this  belief.  Yet  he 
must  believe,  to  be  happy,  in  the  chastity  of  Diana. 

She  rose,  and  at  the  threshold  of  her  bedroom, 
standing  with  her  back  to  him,  she  said  in  a  hard 
little  voice : 

"  Do  as  you  please.     I  don't  care." 

The  door  closed  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CHASTITY,  after  all,  he  found  in  marriage,  in  the 
husband  and  wife  who  loved  one  another,  faithful 
in  thought  as  in  deed,  he  regarding  all  women  and 
she  regarding  all  men  with  calm  eyes,  cool  and  clear 
as  the  eyes  of  children. 

He  remained  abroad  a  year.  Herkimer  sent  him 
now  to  London,  now  to  Vienna,  now  to  Paris  or 
Berlin  —  he  followed  the  march  of  events  literally. 
And  in  the  clean  and  beneficent  ways  of  marriage 
he  worked  well.  He  worked  with  a  machinelike 
regularity,  an  unflagging  enthusiasm,  in  strange 
contrast  with  the  fitful  work  of  the  past. 

The  year  sped  in  fashionable  hotels,  in  trains  de 
luxe,  in  splendid  capitals,  in  gay  watering-places, 
and  its  influence  was  manifest  in  the  young  couple's 
changed  appearance.  Diana  soon  came  to  be  taken 
everywhere  for  a  Parisienne,  while  John  was  taken 
for  an  Englishman.  This  error,  when  it  was 
brought  to  their  attention,  caused  them  to  smile 
with  secret  delight.  Then  Diana,  turning  with  re- 
doubled disgust  from  her  American  gowns,  chose 
French  apparel  of  a  stranger  elegance,  a  more 
bizarre  grace.  He  even  outdid  the  Londoner  in  the 
252 


John  Cave 

precision  of  his  dress,  invariably  wearing  in  town 
dark,  smooth,  lustrous  raiment,  and,  out  of  town, 
coloured  clothes  of  rough,  soft  stuffs,  with  coloured 
collars  and  brown  boots. 

Diana  shared  no  less  in  his  work  than  in  his 
pleasure.  She  had  mastered  both  typewriter  and 
camera,  she  typed  all  his  manuscript,  and  when  pic- 
tures were  needed  for  an  interview,  accompanying 
her  husband,  she  posed  the  celebrity  while  John 
questioned  him. 

Sometimes,  late  at  night,  laying  down  his  pen, 
the  young  man  would  rise,  light  a  cigarette,  and 
pace  the  bright,  still,  busy  room  with  happiness 
thrilling  in  his  heart  like  music.  He  gazed  at  the 
slim  figure  at  her  desk,  absorbed,  grave  and  con- 
tent ;  and  he  asked  himself  how  it  was  possible  that 
life,  which  he  had  found  always  ugly  and  sad,  could 
give  him  now  such  clean  and  stimulating  happiness 
as  this.  This  must  be  but  a  brief  episode  in  life. 
This  could  not  last. 

Frightened  a  little,  he  bent  over  her,  and  when 
she  looked  up  with  a  tender  smile,  he  put  his  arm 
about  her  and  murmured  in  a  sad  voice : 

"  Dearest,  let  us  love  one  another  always." 

Laughing  tremulously,  lightly  leaning  for  a  mo- 
ment her  golden  head  against  his  breast,  she  sighed : 

"  Ah,  we  will,  we  will." 

But  there  was  fear  in  his  voice,  a  fear  that,  as 
253 


John  Cave 

the  year  waned,  justified  itself.  He  found  that 
passion  was  cooling. 

Passion  was  cooling.  His  eyes,  no  longer  cold 
and  pure,  lingered  now  upon  beautiful  women,  and 
he  perceived  that  in  his  case  marital  chastity  of 
thought  as  of  deed  had  ceased  to  be  involuntary, 
like  breathing,  but  required,  like  uphill  walking,  a 
certain  slight  effort.  And  in  Diana's  case.  .  .  . 
But  he  thrust  the  thought  aside. 

He  had  believed  that  passion,  the  sole  source  of 
perfect  marital  chastity,  would  never  die.  Would 
it  in  his  case  soon  be  dead?  Was  it  already  dead? 
Faithful  in  deed  only,  was  he  doomed  to  go  through 
life  crushing  in  his  heart  now  this  desire  and  now 
that  ?  Then  marriage  had  duped  him. 

Yet,  duped  or  not,  he  was  happy.  He  would 
be  loyal.  But  Diana.  .  .  .  Again  he  thrust  the 
thought  aside. 


254 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LEAVING  the  Dispatch  office  early,  he  walked 
home  in  the  cold  blue  dusk. 

The  still  cold  of  the  November  evening  filled 
him  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  youth,  and  he  strode 
on  more  buoyantly  in  his  lustrous  London  garb. 
Exhilarating  thoughts  rose  like  champagne  bubbles 
in  his  mind,  thoughts  of  success,  money,  praise. 
And  then  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Slocum  caused  him 
to  smile. 

The  Slocums  were  to  dine  with  them  that  night. 
Slocum  he  despised,  but  Marie  Slocum  was  beauti- 
ful. .  .  . 

The  odour  of  violets  filled  the  air,  and  entering 
the  flower  shop  with  a  vague  feeling  of  penitence, 
of  pity,  he  bought  Diana  a  great  bouquet  of  purple 
blooms.  Poor  Diana !  But  she  should  never  know 
his  vagrom  thoughts. 

The  dinner  was  a  success.  Everything  appeared 
to  succeed  here  in  New  York.  Slocum  opened  his 
eyes  at  the  simple  pommes  soufflees,  and  when  the 
chef  came  in  person  to  prepare  the  caneton  a  la 
presse  in  its  big  silver  machine,  the  young  million- 
aire could  not  conceal  his  crude  awe. 
255 


John  Cave 

They  returned  to  the  drawing-room  for  coffee. 
Slocum  and  Diana  chose  the  ottoman  near  the 
Hoyas  portfolio,  but  Mrs.  Slocum  said  that  she  was 
cold,  and  seating  herself  before  the  fire,  she  crossed 
her  knees  and  smoked,  one  bare  arm  hanging  list- 
lessly over  the  chair-back. 

Balancing  his  cup,  he  stood  behind  her.  Hers 
was  a  wan,  dark  beauty,  a  sultry  beauty.  Discon- 
tent lurked  in  the  corners  of  her  full  lips.  He 
loved  to  look  at  her. 

Frowning  slightly,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from 
the  fire,  she  said : 

"  Don't  look  at  me  like  that." 

Then  she  smiled  a  strange  smile,  and  resumed 
her  silent  contemplation  of  the  flame. 

His  spoon  rattled  noisily  against  his  cup.  A 
little  shiver  ran  over  him.  With  regret  and  disap- 
pointment he  perceived  that  he  did  not  want  to  be 
unfaithful  to  his  wife. 

Diana  extricated  him  from  his  confusion.  "  Will 
you  bring  me  the  cigarettes  ?  "  she  called. 

He  hastened  to  her,  immensely  relieved.  His 
violets  in  her  corsage  consoled  and  strengthened 
him.  He  sat;  down  beside  her,  as  it  were  under  her 
wing. 

But  Mrs.  Slocum  wished  to  see  the  holographs. 
He  led  her  reluctantly  to  the  library,  and  side  by 
side  they  studied  the  holographs  of  Lamb,  Flaubert, 
256 


John  Cave 

Dostoyeffsky.  In  turning  a  page  their  hands 
touched.  Her  shoulder,  firm  and  elastic,  pressed 
against  his.  .  .  .  But  he  hurried  to  the  cabinet  for 
another  holograph. 

As  he  was  returning,  he  felt  her  gaze  upon  him, 
and  lifting  his  eyes,  he  met  her  look  of  amused 
contempt. 

Had  she  any  right  to  scorn  and  ridicule  him  for 
his  marital  loyalty?  Well,  he  had,  perhaps,  made 
an  advance  or  two.  And  now,  in  his  retreat,  no 
doubt  he  did  look  rather  small.  But  he  had  not 
realised  the  unspeakable  falsity,  the  unspeakable 
cruelty,  of  the  amours  of  the  married. 

"  Suppose  we  go  back  to  the  drawing-room,"  he 
said  in  a  sulky  voice. 

Diana  and  Slocum  stood  beside  the  fire,  very  busy 
with  something ;  but  on  the  others'  appearance  they 
drew  suddenly  back,  and  Slocum  thrust  his  hand- 
kerchief up  his  cuff  and  sat  down  in  an  awkward 
attitude,  with  one  arm  placed  across  his  waistcoat, 
like  a  broken  arm  in  a  sling. 

Mrs.  Slocum  asked  her  husband  to  explain  a 
Hoyas,  and  John,  left  alone  with  Diana,  said : 

"  I  lunched  with  Miles  and  Herkimer  to-day." 

"Did  you?" 

"  They  were  awfully  kind.  Miles  talked  again  of 
buying  The  Press." 

"Did  he?" 

B5Z 


John  Cave 

"  He  asked  a  lot  of  questions.  I  told  him  all 
about  old  yawning  Collier,  and  Gray  the  rubber 
stamp  man,  and  Clayton  with  his  brown  frock  coat 
and  white  sombrero.  He  said " 

"Did  he?" 

Puzzled  at  the  stupid  interruption,  he  glanced  at 
her.  No,  she  had  not  been  listening.  Her  lips 
parted,  her  eyes  wide,  her  pose  strained,  she  gazed 
across  the  room  at  the  Slocums.  His  gaze  followed 
hers,  and  he  saw  that  the  Slocums  were  furiously 
quarrelling  in  subdued  tones.  He  smiled  a  tolerant 
smile. 

"  Listen,  Di,"  he  said.  "  Miles  may  send  me 
over  to  The  Press's  sale.  He " 

But  Diana  had  risen.  She  advanced  slowly  to 
meet  the  advancing  Slocums. 

"  We  must  be  going,"  said  Slocum.  He  still  held 
his  arm  across  his  waistcoat.  It  was  his  right  arm, 
and  he  had  to  withdraw  it  to  shake  hands.  John 
saw  then  a  great  stain  upon  his  shirt-bosom. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Diana,  and  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  Mrs.  Slocum. 

But  Mrs.  Slocum  with  a  smile  and  a  toss  of  the 
head  ignored  her  good-night  and  her  proffered 
hand.  She  nodded  to  John  and  passed  out. 
Slocum  hurried  after  her,  still  imitating  grotesquely 
a  man  with  a  broken  arm. 
258 


John  Cave 

"What  the  deuce  ..."  Utterly  bewildered,  he 
stared  at  Diana.  "  What  the  deuce  .  .  ." 

With  a  slight  start  he  turned  his  back  upon  her, 
and,  striding  to  the  grate,  he  stood  and  gazed  down 
into  the  flame. 

The  stain  was  a  purple  stain.  It  was  about  the 
height  of  Diana's  violets.  Her  violets  were 
crushed.  .  .  .  What  a  surprise! 

He  heard  her  stirring  vaguely  to  and  fro  behind 
him. 

"  Good-night,"  she  whispered. 

Without  moving  he  shouted  suddenly: 

"  Get  out  of  my  sight !  " 

A  long  while  after  she  was  gone  he  stood  in  the 
silent  room,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  back 
bowed,  his  legs  wide  apart,  gazing  down  at  the 
dying  fire. 

She,  too,  then.  .  .  .  What  a  surprise ! 


259 


CHAPTER  XIV 

'MRS.  SLOCUM,  telephoning  to  him  the  next  morn- 
ing at  the  office,  asked  him  to  take  her  out  to 
luncheon. 

They  met  in  the  restaurant  with  a  feigned  gaiety 
that  soon  gave  way  to  silence  and  gloom.  He 
ordered  an  expensive  luncheon,  and  in  taciturn  em- 
barrassment they  bent  over  the  hors  d'ccuvres.  But 
they  ate  little.  They  were  not  at  all  like  lovers. 
They  were  like  two  mourners  with  a  little  dead 
child  upstairs. 

But  the  champagne  loosed  their  restraint,  and 
John,  refilling  her  glass,  said  with  a  shamefaced 
laugh : 

"  Last  night  was  rather  horrible,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Do  you  care  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Slocum. 

"Yes.    Do  you?" 

She  nodded.     "  In  a  dog  in  the  manger  way." 

"  When  I  married,"  said  he,  "  I  believed  that  my 
passion  for  Diana  would  not  die." 

"  We  all  believe  that  when  we  marry  for  love." 

"  But  passion  soon  died,"  he  resumed.  "  Mar- 
riage duped  me.  Yet  I  was  glad  I  had  married. 
Fool  that  I  was,  I  would  be  loyal.  And  I  saw  in 
260 


John  Cave 

my  new  theory  of  marriage,  with  its  renunciations 
and  its  self-denial,  something  noble  and  austere." 

He  pushed  aside  his  untouched  cutlet. 

"  I  sometimes  wondered,"  he  faltered,  "  if  Diana 
could  accept  that  austere  view.  .  .  .  Well,  she 
couldn't,  it  appears.  Good-bye,  then,  to  loyalty. 
The  divorce  .  .  ." 

"  Good-bye  to  loyalty,"  said  Mrs.  Slocum ;  "  but 
why  a  divorce  ?  " 

"But  honour " 

"  No  woman  can  stain  your  honour,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "  Her  actions  touch  no  one's  honour  but 
her  own." 

The  waiter  announced  that  Mrs.  Slocum's  motor 
car  had  arrived,  and  she  said  carelessly,  drawing 
down  her  veil : 

"  Come  with  me,  if  you  like." 

"  Thank  you." 

And  in  her  landaulet  they  were  soon  rushing 
furiously  and  smoothly  along  a  white  road,  between 
two  lines  of  bare  trees  that  were  bent  in  the  wind 
at  a  uniform  angle.  Mrs.  Slocum  leaned  back  in 
her  soft  furs,  and  gazing  straight  before  her,  she 
said  bitterly : 

"  Overlook  it  all.     That  is  what  I  shall  do." 

"  Why  will  you  overlook  it  ?  " 

She  smiled  sourly. 

"  Because  marital  fidelity  is  impossible,"  she  said. 


John  Cave 

"  Fidelity  of  thought  is  impossible,"  he  agreed. 

"  Impossible."  She  paused.  Her  dark  eyes 
gazed  at  the  western  sky  through  a  tracery  of  bare 
boughs,  a  sky  of  transparent  gold  shining  through 
grey  lace. 

"  When  I  married,"  she  said,  "  I  too  believed 
in  the  immortality  of  passion.  It  died.  It  always 
dies.  .  .  .  But  selfish  passion  was  succeeded  by  un- 
selfish affection.  I  love  my  husband  now  as  I  love 
my  father  or  my  brother.  And  so  he  loves  me. 
Why,  then,  a  divorce  ?  " 

He  frowned.  "  But  the  deceit !  You  can't  stand 
the  deceit.  Remember  last  night." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  the  deceit's  failure  that  angered 
me  last  night,"  she  answered  slowly.  "  The  dis- 
covery of  these  things  gives  one,  of  course,  horrible 
pain.  But  if  I  don't  discover  them  .  .  ." 

"  But  the  deceit,"  he  repeated.  "  The  life- 
long  " 

She  interrupted  him  impatiently. 

"  Passion  is  bestial,"  she  said.  "  Yet  we  can't 
escape  it.  Then,  when  it  seizes  us,  let  us  conceal 
its  work.  That  isn't  deceit,  it  is  decency." 


Reluctantly,  because  he  thought  she  desired  it, 
he  took  her  hand,  and  peeling  back  the  glove,  he 
kissed  the  soft,  warm  palm.     But  she  drew  her  hand 
262 


John  Cave 

away.  To  his  surprise,  to  his  relief,  she  would  not 
let  him  kiss  her  mouth.  And  with  some  little  irri- 
tation she  disengaged  her  waist  from  his  awkward 
arm. 


263 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  DEAR  JOHN, —  I  buy  The  Dispatch  every  day 
because  you  have  articles  in  it  and  I  enjoy  them 
very  much.  Mr.  Roberts  told  me  you  were  mar- 
ried and  he  said  you  were  very  successful.  I  am 
so  glad.  I  wonder  if  you  would  care  to  come  and 
see  me?  There  could  be  no  harm  in  it  —  you  will 
know  why  if  you  come.  PRUDENCE." 

No  harm  in  it:  then  she  was  ill?  She  gave  a 
miserable  address.  Perhaps  she  wanted  money 
again.  Well,  what  if  she  did?  She  had  not  be- 
grudged him  money  in  his  need. 

The  hansom  hurried,  and  leaning  forward,  he 
mused  upon  life.  .  .  .  And  from  Prudence's  life 
his  thoughts  turned  to  his  own.  .  .  .  His  relation- 
ship with  Diana,  calm  and  even  affectionate,  em- 
braced nothing  now  but  their  material  welfare:  he 
worked  his  best;  she,  with  her  sincere  and  humble 
and  unselfish  interest,  kept  him  up  to  his  best  work. 
Yet  it  was  difficult  to  live  always  upon  the  surface 
of  their  relationship,  though,  to  sustain  himself,  he 
often  swore  that  woman  really  valued  her  chastity 
no  more  than  man  valued  his.  .  .  .  Men  from  the 
264 


John  Cave 

beginning,  on  purely  selfish  grounds,  had  tried  to 
hypnotise  women  into  the  belief  that  chastity  be- 
fore marriage,  fidelity  after  it,  were  the  supreme 
womanly  virtues.  All  men  preached  that  lie;  all 
the  arts  and  all  the  creeds,  being  masculine, 
preached  it ;  and  all  preached  it  in  vain.  .  .  .  He 
smiled  grimly.  Then  he  sighed.  But  why  did  he 
sigh?  He  sighed  because  he  wished  his  wife  had 
been  like  the  Mahommedan  ideal,  the  impossible 
creature,  devoted  bod^  and  soul,  who  in  her  hus- 
band's absence  would  neither  laugh,  nor  listen  to 
music,  nor  make  her  toilet,  nor  eat  her  favourite 
dishes.  .  .  . 

The  hansom  stopped  before  a  mean  house,  and 
in  answer  to  his  ring  the  door  was  opened  by  a 
young  woman  with  a  cigarette  in  her  mouth.  She 
wore  a  loose  pink  gown.  Her  short  hair,  as  yellow 
and  dry  as  straw,  curled  over  her  head  in  tight 
kinks.  Her  face  was  daubed  with  rouge  and 
powder,  and  when  she  smiled  a  gold  front  tooth 
shot,  like  a  little  sun,  bright  rays  into  his  eyes. 

"  Hello,  dear,"  she  said. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  answered  stiffly.  "  Does 
Miss  Pru " 

"  Oh,  excuse  me.     Are  you  Mr.  Cave?  " 

He  nodded,  and  she  led  him  down  a  bare  hall  and 
through  a  bare  parlour.  The  house  seemed  quite 
unfurnished.  Not  a  rug,  not  a  picture,  not  a  seat, 
265 


John  Cave 

was  to  be  seen.  But  the  dining-room  boasted  a 
table  and  a  half-dozen  deal  chairs,  and  she  left  him 
there  with  three  girls. 

"  Just  wait  here  a  minute,  Mr.  Cave." 

The  three  girls  regarded  him  calmly.  In  loose 
gowns,  one  of  yellow,  one  of  red,  one  of  green,  they 
leaned  their  elbows  on  the  table,  amid  a  litter  of 
egg-stained  breakfast  dishes,  smoking  cigarettes 
and  sipping  coffee  from  enormous  cups. 

"  Take  a  seat,"  said  the  girl  in  red.  She  smiled 
languidly,  then  she  yawned.  "  I  feel  rotten  this 
morning,"  she  murmured. 

"  My  head  aches  fit  to  split,"  the  girl  in  yellow 
sighed. 

"  If  we  had  stopped,"  whined  the  girl  in  green, 
"  when  I  said  to  .  .  ." 

Crossing  her  legs  and  clasping  her  ankle  with 
nicotine-stained  fingers,  the  girl  in  red  struck  a 
match  on  the  sole  of  her  slipper  and  lighted  a  Vir- 
ginia cigarette  that  smelt  like  burning  hay. 

"  Maybe,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Cave  will  treat." 

They  all  turned  to  him  with  polite,  inquiring 
smiles. 

"Yes,  I'll  gladly  treat,"  said  he,  and  he  laid  a 
dollar  on  the  table.  "  Tell  me,  is  Prudence  ill  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"111?    Dying!" 

"  Nonsense ! " 

266 


John  Cave 

"  Wait  till  you  see  her." 

And  they  were  shaking  their  heads  lugubriously 
over  Prudence  when  the  girl  in  pink  returned. 

"  Now,  sir,  if  you're  ready." 

"  Has  Prudence  a  physician  ? "  he  asked,  as  they 
ascended  the  steep,  dark  stairway. 

"  Doc  Capp  drops  in  now  and  then.  But  he  says 
there  is  no  hope." 

"  I  suppose  she's  hard  up  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  She  can't  walk  out  more  than  once 
a  week,  if  that." 

"  '  Walk  out '  ?     I  don't  quite  grasp " 

Then,  in  a  flash,  he  did  grasp,  and  the  ugly 
phrase  gave  him  a  new  and  sombre  picture  of  his 
friend.  He  frowned.  .  .  . 

"  She  was  arrested  last  month." 

They  reached  the  door,  and  his  guide  withdrew 
in  silence.  He  stood  a  moment  on  the  threshold. 

Prudence,  propped  with  pillows,  sat  in  the  wide 
bed  in  a  dream.  Her  dark  hair  lay  in  a  thick  rope 
on  her  white  gown.  Though  thin  and  pale  beyond 
belief,  the  freshness  and  the  loveliness  of  youth 
still,  like  a  faint  perfume,  clung  to  her,  and  there 
was  no  change  in  the  beautiful  eyes.  On  his  ap- 
pearance she  started,  she  flushed,  and,  as  she 
extended  her  thin  hands,  her  air  had  never  been 
gayer,  more  reckless,  more  charming. 

"  Dear  old  girl,"  he  said. 
267 


John  Cave 

Murmuring  gentle  little  phrases  of  welcome, 
Prudence  drew  her  hands  slowly  away. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Am  I  glad  to  see  you !  Do  you  think  I  have 
no  memory  ? " 

She  laughed  softly. 

"  What  good  times  we  used  to  have,"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  remember  the  night  we  first  met  ?  Do 
you  remember  our  first  ride  together  in  the  han- 
som?" 

"  Do  I  remember !  " 

"  You  kissed  me  in  the  hansom,"  she  resumed, 
gazing  out  of  the  window  dreamily. 

Her  pallid  face  was  like  a  wedge  between  the 
heavy  masses  of  her  unbound  hair.  The  ghost  of 
a  smile  made  her  lips  tremble.  He  regarded  her 
in  silence  a  long  time.  .  .  .  From  the  lowered  lids 
tears  welled;  they  hung  glistening  in  the  long 
lashes. 

And  suddenly  she  bowed  her  forehead  on  her 
knees  and  wept.  Her  hair  fell  forward.  Under  it 
her  voice  had  a  muffled  sound. 

"  Oh,"  she  moaned,  "  why  have  I  spoiled  my  life? 
.  .  .  Must  I  die?  ...  I  am  afraid  of  death." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  die,"  he  said. 

"  I  lie  awake  at  night,"  she  whispered.  "  I  can't 
sleep  for  fear." 

"  Well,  that  is  all  over  now,"  said  he.  "  I'll  send 
268 


John  Cave 

a  physician  here  at  once.     And  in  the  mountains 
you'll  soon  grow  strong  again." 

She  leaned  back  on  the  pillows,  shaking  her  head 
incredulously. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  fat,  elderly  man  ap- 
peared. He  tiptoed  over  to  Prudence  and  put  some 
money  in  her  hand. 

"  Two  and  a  half  was  all  they'd  give  on  it,"  he 
said.  "  I  bought  you  a  squab.  It's  cooking  now 
downstairs." 

He  seated  himself  in  a  rocking-chair,  took  a  pipe 
from  his  patched  coat,  and  began  to  smoke  and  rock 
vigorously. 

"  I  think  I  remember  you,"  said  John. 

He  nodded.  "  Times  have  changed  for  the 
worse  with  me,"  he  said.  "  With  her,  too."  And 
he  pointed  his  pipestem  at  the  young  girl. 

"  Oh,  she  will  soon  be  all  right  now,"  John  cried 
heartily.  "  She  is  going  to  the  mountains." 

"  Is  she  ?  "  said  the  other.  He  frowned,  rocked 
to  and  fro,  and  puffed  hard  at  his  pipe.  "  That's 
good,"  he  said,  in  a  dismal  voice. 

The  girl  in  pink  returned,  bringing  an  odour  of 
whisky  with  her,  and  when  John  took  leave  of 
Prudence,  the  fat  man  followed  him  forth. 

"  We  might  have  a  drink,  Mr.  Cave,"  he  said,  as 
they  descended  noisily  the  uncarpeted  stairs.     "  I'll 
walk  as  far  as  the  corner  with  you." 
269 


John  Cave 

"Very  well." 

"  I  guess  you  heard  about  my  trouble,"  he  went 
on.  "  I  pretended  to  Prudence  I  was  rich.  I  had 
to  —  to  hold  her.  She  never  cared  anything  for 
me.  Fat  men  have  no  success  with  women." 

"Haven't  they?" 

"  Oh,  no.  So,  to  hold  her,  I  pretended  I  was 
rich.  I  gave  her  more  in  a  week  than  I  earned  in 
a  month.  When  the  smash  came,  they  let  me  off 
on  account  of  my  thirty-four  years'  service  and  the 
wife  and  boy.  Still,  my  house  and  life  insurance 
policy  partly  paid " 

He  broke  off,  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  dining- 
room  door,  and  smiled  and  shook  his  red  and  dirty 
forefinger  roguishly  at  the  three  young  women 
seated,  with  a  flask  of  whisky,  at  the  disordered 
table. 

"  Well,  go  on,"  said  John. 

"Where  was  I?" 

"  About  your  family." 

"  Oh,  they're  all  right  now.  The  boy  has  a  fine 
job,  he  brings  his  pay  home  regular.  I  hear  he 
wants  to  marry,  but  of  course,  as  long  as  his  mother 
lives  .  .  ." 

John  nodded.  "  And  what  are  you  doing  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  There's  some  bar-rooms  I  look  after." 

"  You  are  not  a  bartender,  are  you  ?  " 
270 


John  Cave 

"  Oh,  no.  I  swab  out  four  bars  at  closing  time. 
It's  mean,  wet  work,  and  nasty  hours.  But  I  don't 
complain." 

The  fat  man  lingered  on  the  doorstep.  There 
was  in  his  demeanour  a  gaiety  that  he  tried  in  vain 
to  hide. 

"Well,  are  you  coming?"  said  John  impatiently. 

He  hesitated.  "  About  that  drink  —  some  other 
time  will  do,  won't  it?  You  see,  I  want  to  keep 
the  girls  in  order  in  the  dining-room." 

Prudence  that  evening  set  out  with  a  nurse  for 
the  mountains  of  New  Hampshire. 


271 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  Miles's  behalf  he  had  bought  at  auction  that 
morning  the  moribund  Press  for  six  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars;  and  now,  as  editor-in-chief,  he 
entered  the  office  from  which  he  had  been  ejected, 
penniless  and  drunken,  with  kicks  and  curses. 

To  his  dismay  the  room  was  crowded.  Before 
that  mass  of  men  he  halted  in  the  doorway  with  a 
frown.  But  a  murmur  of  welcome  arose,  and 
Clayton,  advancing  in  a  purple  frock  coat,  led  him 
to  a  central  desk. 

Pale  and  grave,  he  looked  about  him.  Here 
and  there  a  familiar  face  gazed  anxiously  into  his. 
He  saw  Gray's  face,  solemn,  fat,  white ;  Collier's, 
a  little  mocking,  under  its  crest  of  stiff  hair ;  Clay- 
ton's, fixed  in  a  nervous  smile;  and  haggard  and 
hopeless  were  the  aged  faces  of  the  staff  of  editors 
who  wrote  The  Press's  interminable  leaders  upon 
steel  rails  and  bimetallism. 

In  that  moment,  the  climax  of  his  career,  with 
his  huge  salary,  his  youth,  his  imposing  office,  his 
absolute  power  over  all  these  men  who  had  kicked 
and  cursed  him,  John  Cave  felt  neither  triumphant, 
nor  kindly,  nor  revengeful.  He  felt  only  afraid. 
272 


John  Cave 

He  felt  only  afraid  of  failure  in  his  difficult  task 
of  restoring  the  moribund  old  Press  to  vigorous 
youth. 

The  business  manager  swaggered  forward,  made 
a  gay  speech  full  of  such  terms  as  "  your  auspi- 
cious return,"  "  our  heartfelt  delight "  and  "  sure 
success,"  then  handed  him  a  bouquet  of  red  roses, 
the  gift  of  the  staff. 

All  clapped  and  cheered.  He  saw  Collier,  Gray, 
Clayton,  even  old  man  Clayton,  clapping  and  cheer- 
ing. The  applause  died,  and  he  began: 

"  Thank  you  for  these  roses.  Perhaps  you  re- 
member my  departure  from  The  Press.  There 
were  no  roses  then." 

They  exchanged  shocked  looks,  but  here  and 
there  he  saw  a  repressed  smile,  and  Lawson  gave 
a  loud  laugh  that  was  suddenly  hushed. 

"  There  were  no  roses,"  he  repeated,  "  when 
you  kicked  me  out,  a  drunken  wreck.  But  what 
made  me  a  drunken  wreck?  Your  hatred.  And 
why  did  you  hate  me?  Because  I  criticised  your 
work  frankly  and  freely. 

"  Hereafter  I  shall  criticise  your  work  more 
frankly  and  freely  than  ever.  But  please  don't 
hate  me  for  it.  Be  grateful  to  me  for  it.  It  will 
do  you  good. 

"  Hatreds,  friendships,  count  here  no  more. 
Nothing  counts  here  now  but  work.  By  your 

273 


John  Cave 

work  alone  you  will  stand  or  fall.     How  relieved 
you  look.     Yet  I  am  afraid  some  of  you  will  fall." 

He  stopped.  Without  applause,  without  a  smile, 
without  a  whisper,  they  withdrew.  But  he  asked 
the  two  Claytons  and  Collier  to  remain,  and  the 
four  men  seated  themselves  about  a  desk  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  big  room.  Turning  to  the  editor-in- 
chief,  he  said: 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Clayton,  I  am  to  take  your 
place." 

The  old  man's  face  fell.     "  Then  I'm  to  go?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  My  lifelong  devotion " 

" — counts  for  nothing."  And  John  shook  his 
head  and  smiled. 

His  thirty  years  of  office  old  man  Clayton  had 
used  for  his  own  benefit.  He  had  worked  hard  to 
obtain  all  the  free  privileges  and  pleasures  that  are 
an  American  editor's  due,  and,  thanks  to  his  un- 
sleeping greed,  few  of  these  privileges  and  pleas- 
ures had  escaped  him.  He  had  a  free  box  at  every 
theatre,  free  use  of  all  telegraph,  *elephone  and  ex- 
press services,  free  passage  on  any  railroad;  and 
insatiably  for  thirty  years  he  had  gobbled  up  the 
best  of  the  free  excursions  that  are  thrust  by  the 
dozen  upon  newspapers,  speeding,  with  a  party 
of  capitalists  or  politicians,  now  to  Florida,  now  to 
the  Yellowstone,  now  to  California,  in  a  luxurious 
274 


John  Cave 

private  train  that  rang  with  hoarse  song  and  the 
clear  and  hollow  note  of  champagne  corks.  .  .  . 
Yet  in  the  retrospect  they  seemed  to  the  old  man, 
those  thirty  swift  years,  years  of  incessant  and 
stupendous  toil,  and  in  senile  rage  he  exploded 
feebly : 

"  But  it  is  disgraceful,  after  a  lifetime  of  service, 
to  discharge  me  now." 

"  Mr.  Miles  asks  you  to  accept  a  gift  of  six 
months'  salary." 

"Oh,  he  does,  does  he?" 

"  Why,  that's  splendid,  father,"  cried  young 
Clayton,  with  urgent  nods  and  winks. 

"  I  take  your  terms,"  said  the  old  man  hastily, 
and  he  rose  and  hobbled  away  to  pack  up  the  dream 
book,  the  almanac,  the  grammar,  all  the  accumula- 
tion of  thirty  years. 

John  turned  to  the  son. 

"  Our  leaders  are  to  come  from  New  York, 
Bert,"  he  said.  "  Herkimer's  leaders,  you  know, 
appear  in  all  the  Miles  papers.  So  of  course  The 
Press  leader  writers  must  go.  Do  you  mind  tell- 
ing them  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  mind,"  Clayton  faltered. 

"  Miles  gives  each  of  the  old  fellows  three 
months'  pay." 

"  They'll  need  it,"  said  Clayton,  "  before  they 
find  work  again." 

275 


John  Cave 

"  And  about  your  own  post.  It  conflicts  with 
mine,  and " 

Clayton  flung  out  his  arms  in  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair, and  John  interjected  hastily: 

"  But  it's  all  right.  What  salary  are  you  get- 
ting?" 

"  Seventy-five  dollars." 

"  It  is  none  too  much.  You  turn  out  a  pretty 
good  story.  Suppose  you  go  back  on  the  street 
again  —  be  our  star  reporter  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Clayton.  And  he 
set  his  huge  sombrero  on  his  small,  bony  head,  and 
in  his  purple  frock  coat  and  brown  boots,  diffusing 
a  faint  odour  of  musk,  he  departed  to  discharge  the 
six  aged  leader  writers. 

Collier,  as  soon  as  he  was  left  alone  with  John, 
said  with  a  harsh,  mocking  laugh: 

"Well,  am  I  to  go?" 

"  It  depends  on  yourself.  There  is  no  love  lost 
between  us,  Coll,  but  I  shall  treat  you  justly." 

Collier's  prominent  blue  eyes  became  bright  and 
hard. 

"  Now,  see  here,  Cave,"  he  said  in  his  high, 
whining  voice,  "  you  know  you  deserved  all  you 
got  from  me,  and " 

"  Oh,  don't  bring  that  up,  for  heaven's  sake." 

Collier  sneered,  with  an  air  of  cold  conviction: 
276 


John  Cave 

"  You  won't  last  here." 

"Why  not?" 

"  There's  no  stability  in  you." 

Very  red,  John  mused  a  moment  with  knitted 
brows.  Then  he  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  Well,  while  I  do  last,  this  is  what  I  expect  of 
you,"  he  said  calmly.  "  You  are  to  come  to  the 
office  every  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  at  one, 
when  your  reporters  arrive,  their  assignments  are 
all  to  be  ready  for  them.  Ready  for  them  —  you 
understand?  And  they  must  be  good  assignments, 
too  —  not  scandalous  —  but  good." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  good  ?  " 

He  explained  what  he  meant  by  good  at  great 
length. 

"  And  by  the  way,"  he  concluded,  "  see  that 
Gray,  with  his  '  breathing  spots '  and  his  '  historic 
olds,'  handles  no  more  copy.  Is  Gray  interested  in 
any  of  your  departments  ?  " 

"  Real  estate." 

"  Well,  let  him  do  real  estate,  then." 

Thus  began  the  rejuvenation  of  The  Press. 
John  read  all  the  American  papers,  he  wrote  to 
the  authors  of  all  such  stories  as  he  liked,  and 
continually,  as  Press  men  were  discharged,  he 
brought  on  these  other  men  to  take  their  places. 

With  the  winter's  ending  The  Press  became  the 
277 


John  Cave 

paper  he  had  desired  to  make  it,  a  paper  interesting 
and  accurate  from  end  to  end,  a  paper  written  from 
end  to  end  in  English  simple  and  graceful. 

At  the  same  time  its  circulation  continued 
to  fall.  At  the  same  time,  too,  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  maintain  a  high  tone  in  its  columns,  for 
as  sure  as,  out  of  delicacy,  he  refrained  from  inter- 
viewing respondents,  co-respondents  and  suchlike 
persons,  the  most  remarkable  interviews  appeared 
the  next  morning  in  every  other  paper  in  town,  and 
Herkimer  asked  mildly  over  the  long-distance  tele- 
phone why  The  Press  had  missed  the  story. 


278 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  WHOM  did  you  take  to  supper  at  the  West- 
minster last  night  ?  " 

He  turned  away  with  a  frown.  "  Oh,  leave  my 
affairs  alone." 

"  Shirley  Brooke  saw  you." 

"  What  do  I  care  who  saw  me  ?  " 

She  broke  into  high,  shrill  laughter.  "  Don't 
humiliate  me  too  deeply !  "  she  cried. 

" '  Humiliate '  you !  You  began  it !  It  is  all 
your  fault,  you " 

And  he  rushed  upon  her  with  clenched  fists.  He 
towered  over  her,  his  fists  clenched  above  her  head. 
But  she,  motionless  in  her  pale  gown,  the  diamonds 
flickering  on  her  white,  tumultuous  bosom,  smiled 
at  his  violence  with  superb  scorn.  So  he  left  the 
room. 

In  the  library  he  began  a  letter  to  Prudence. 
Prudence,  after  regaining  much  of  her  strength 
amid  the  sunlit  snows  of  the  New  Hampshire 
mountains,  had  returned  to  opium  again,  and  now, 
they  told  him,  she  was  dying.  And  the  dying  girl 
wished  to  see  him,  but  he  must  write  and  tell  her 
that  he  could  not  come. 

279 


John  Cave 

A  hard  letter  to  write.  He  finished  a  page,  and 
in  the  blotting  of  it  his  mind  wandered,  and  he  be- 
gan to  brood  on  his  unhappy  marriage. 

Yet,  since  passion  was  ephemeral  as  a  rose,  since 
affection  endured  like  iron,  he  b  .ived  his  marriage 
to  be  in  every  respect  right.  iHut  why  did  they 
find  it  so  difficult  then  to  live  up  to  such  a  mar- 
riage? Were  their  natures  of  too  low  a  type? 

No:  the  whole  trouble  seemed  to  be  that  they 
did  not  succeed  in  hiding  from  one  another  their 
flirtations. 

But  they  were  continually  spying  on  one  another. 
Therefore  their  flirtations  were  impossible  to 
hide. 

He  wished  Diana  had  been  true  to  him.  Then 
he  would  have  been  true  to  her.  They  would  have 
grown  old  together.  And  as  their  future  dwindled 
to  nothing  but  two  waiting  graves,  they  would  have 
had  the  future  of  their  children  to  absorb  them,  to 
make  them  forget  age  and  death,  and  they  would 
have  been  almost  as  happy  in  their  children's  future 
as  in  the  magical  return  of  their  own  youth.  He 
wished  they  had  been  true  to  one  another,  their 
loyalty  the  one  sure  thing  in  a  world  ugly  and  false. 

Could  they  forget  the  past  and  start  their  mar- 
ried life  afresh?  No;  impossible.  Nothing  can 
be  started  afresh. 

He  looked  up,  and  some  sulphur-coloured  roses 
280 


John  Cave 

in  a  blue  bowl  reminded  him,  by  their  beauty,  ©f 
the  dancing  girl  with  whom  he  had  supped  last 
night.  He  smiled. 

Diana,  after  all,  had  unlocked  for  them  a  very 
beautiful  garden.  She  had  freed  them  from  the 
hideous  prison,  the  cold,  grey  prison,  of  marital 
fidelity.  And  now  without  deceit,  whilst  enjoying 
the  stimulus  of  their  affection  to  the  full,  they  could 
enjoy  besides  all  those  passions  which  are  born, 
like  flowers,  continually  in  the  heart.  .  .  .  Yes,  a 
beautiful,  honourable  life  was  theirs 

But  he  started  at  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  in 
the  drawing-room,  and,  very  pale  all  of  a  sudden, 
he  tiptoed  to  the  drawing-room  door  to  listen. 

"  We'll  go  at  once,"  the  voice  said. 

In  terror  lest  he  be  caught  eavesdropping,  he 
darted  back  to  the  library  with  long,  light,  silent 
leaps.  He  left  the  door  open  on  a  crack.  Then 
he  stood  behind  it,  pinching  his  mouth  with  thumb 
and  forefinger,  his  head  cocked  on  one  side,  very 
still,  listening. 

Whether  the  voice  was  Slocum's  or  Brooke's  he 
could  not  tell.  He  rather  thought  it  was  Brooke's. 
Diana  was  dining  at  her  aunt's,  and  the  young  man 
had  no  doubt  been  sent  to  fetch  her.  "  We'll  go 
at  once,"  he  said,  meaning  they  would  go  at  once 
to  Mrs.  Scarlett's. 

At  the  same  time,  as  he  listened  there  intently, 
281 


John  Cave 

clasping  and  unclasping  his  mouth  with  tremulous 
fingers,  he  felt  faint  with  the  premonition  of  some 
great  calamity. 

The  voices  in  the  drawing-room  flowed  on  in 
monotonous  murmurings.  Suddenly  Diana  cried, 
"  I  will ! "  Then  a  door  opened,  her  silk  skirts 
swished  in  the  hall,  she  entered  her  room,  for  a  long 
time  she  made  a  great  clatter  there.  What  could 
she  be  about? 

At  last  she  came  forth  again.  She  rejoined  the 
man.  The  lift  bell  tinkled.  They  were  de- 
scending. 

He  turned  off  the  light,  and,  though  safe  enough 
from  detection  in  the  darkness,  he  knelt  before  the 
window  and  peeped  out  very  cautiously,  like  a 
sentinel  in  a  rain  of  bullets. 

A  white  motor  car  stood  before  the  hotel. 
Diana,  wrapped  in  furs,  entered  it  with  Brooke. 
An  attendant  gave  the  chauffeur  a  kit-bag.  A 
kit-bag  .  .  .  that  was  odd.  The  car  sped  away. 

He  turned  on  the  light  again.  He  stood,  with 
bowed  head,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  continually 
pinching  and  releasing  his  lips  with  thumb  and 
forefinger  in  quick,  regular,  unconscious  motion. 
A  kit-bag?  Very  odd. 

A  maid  handed  him  upon  a  silver  tray  a  note 
wherein  Diana  had  scrawled : 
282 


John  Cave 

"  I  am  going  away  with  Shirley  Brooke.  You 
will  never  see  me  again.  Good-bye,  John  Cave." 

He  sank  into  an  arm-chair  in  a  limp  posture  and 
rang  at  once  for  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  some  soda- 
water.  It  was  amazing  how  little  he  cared.  He 
cared  not  at  all,  either  one  way  or  the  other. 

But  he  felt  extraordinarily  limp  .  .  .  limp,  weak 
.  .  .  even  a  little  faint  and  sickish  ...  as  though 
by  some  terrible  but  painless  operation  his  entire 
backbone  had  just  been  removed.  .  .  . 


283 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"  How  do  you  feel  this  morning?  " 

"  Fine,"  whispered  Prudence,  smiling.  But 
tears,  the  ready  tears  of  extreme  weakness,  welled 
into  her  clear  eyes,  and  to  restrain  them  she  blinked 
rapidly. 

He  sat  beside  her,  and  they  gazed  forth  at  the 
blue  lake,  the  green  mountains,  and  the  sky's  pure 
and  brilliant  dome  wherein,  like  floating  specks, 
birds  circled. 

A  boat  rounded  the  point,  a  boat  almost  as  wide 
as  it  was  long.  A  thin  old  fellow  rowed  with 
tremendous  vigour,  but  the  boat  was  too  heavy 
to  be  forced  out  of  its  snail's  pace.  A  fat,  elderly 
man  sat  with  crossed  legs  in  an  arm-chair  in  the 
stern,  reading  a  newspaper  and  smoking  a  cigar. 

John  descended  to  the  cottage  landing  as  the 
fat  man  disembarked  with  two  enormous  salmon. 

"You  had  good  luck?" 

Jake,  beside  himself  with  excitement,  shouted 
from  the  boat : 

"  I  guess  we  had !     There's  no  fishin'  like  spring 
fishin'.     B'gorry,  look  here !  " 
284 


John  Cave 

The  bottom  of  the  boat  was  heaped  with  great, 
silvery  salmon,  a  dozen  at  least,  as  big  as  babies. 

"  Have  a  drink  on  the  head  of  it."  The  fat  man 
took  a  bottle  from  his  pocket. 

"  No,  thank  yee,"  said  Jake.  And  he  pushed 
off  and  rowed  away  with  vigorous  strokes.  But 
suddenly  he  dropped  his  oars,  put  to  each  side  of 
his  mouth  a  brown,  lean  hand,  and  shouted : 

"  Tell  the  young  lady  'twas  the  best  day's  fishin' 
o'  forty-nine  years!  B'gorry,  I  guess  'twas  the 
best  fishin'  ever  been  done ! " 

The  fat  man  took  the  bottle  from  his  mouth  to 
shout  back  condescendingly : 

"  All  right,  Jake." 

Then,  as  it  was  mail  time,  he  and  John  set  off 
together  for  the  post-office. 

"  How  is  she,  sir  ?  " 

"  About  the  same." 

They  trudged  on  in  silence.  Now  and  then  the 
fat  man  sighed. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  being  here,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  Pearl  lent  me  the  money  to  come  with." 

"Pearl?" 

"  I  guess  you  don't  remember  her.  The  girl  in 
the  red  dress." 

"  No." 

"  I  only  intended  to  spend  the  day.  It  was  kind 
285 


John  Cave 

of  you  to  ask  me  to  stay.     I  am  making  myself 
useful,  chopping  wood  and  —  er  —  so  on." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right." 

Under  a  birch  they  drank  again  from  the  bottle. 

"  Shouldn't  we  inform  Prudence's  people  ? " 
John  asked. 

"  I  have  already  written  to  her  mother." 

"Who  are  her  people?" 

"  They  come  from  New  Jersey  .  .  .  one  of 
those  New  Jersey  villages  .  .  .  little  grey  wooden 
houses,  choked  with  sand,  lost  in  the  pines.  Her 
father  died  last  year  of  delirium  tremens.  Her 
mother's  a  still  worse  lot." 

"  Prudence  was  very  beautiful,"  John  mused. 

"  And  the  mother  knew  it.  Mr.  Cave,  she  put 
the  girl  on  the  stage  at  thirteen.  Kauffman  was 
the  first  to  take  her  up.  He  wanted  to  marry  her. 
Kauffman  left  her  at  his  death  those  Persian  rugs 
and  old  carved  chests.  He'd  have  left  her  his 
money  if  he  had  had  any." 

"Fond  of  her,  eh?" 

"  Who  wasn't  fond  of  her  ?  She  could  have 
married  well.  But  she  was  reckless  .  .  .  somehow 
honourable  .  .  .  but  very  reckless.  .  .  .  Still,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  opium  .  .  ." 

After  luncheon  the  fat  man  ostentatiously   fell 
to  woodchopping  in  the  wild  garden  behind  the  cot- 
tage, while  John  went  up  to  Prudence  again. 
286 


John  Cave 

"Still  on  the  mend?" 

She  smiled. 

"  And  do  you  like  it  here  at  Sunapee  ?  " 

"  I  love  it,"  she  whispered. 

"  When  you  get  well " 

Her  eyes  dropped,  and  she  frowned  and  shook 
•  her  head. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

Still  with  lowered  lids  she  whispered  bitterly: 

"  When  I  get  well !  " 

He  feigned  bewilderment.  "Of  course :  when 
you  get  well." 

She  looked  up  at  him  piteously.  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  And  with  a  piteous  smile  she 
breathed : 

"  I  heard  what  the  doctor  told  you." 

Then  she  turned  to  the  wall  and  hid  her  face  in 
the  pillows.  No  sound  came  from  her.  He  saw 
her  shoulder  quiver  a  little. 

She  knew  she  was  going  to  die.  It  horrified  him 
to  discover  that.  He  repeated  mechanically : 

"  You  are  mistaken.  I'll  prove  you  are  mis- 
taken." 

Suddenly  Prudence  sat  erect.  Her  tense  hands 
clasped  her  cheeks.  Her  face,  red  and  distorted, 
streamed  with  tears.  He  could  hardly  bear  the  tor- 
ture in  her  appealing  eyes. 

"Oh,  why  must  I  die?"  The  whisper  had  the 
287 


John  Cave 

intensity  of  a  shriek.  "  Don't  you  think  it's  cruel  ? 
I'm  only  a  girl.  Don't  you  think  it's  cruel  ?  " 

The  streaming  eyes  peered  into  his.  Had  he, 
they  asked  him,  any  help  to  give?  But  he  could 
only  repeat,  "  You  are  not  dying ;  it  is  a  mistake." 
And  he  saw  despair  deepen  in  her  eyes.  No,  he 
had  no  help  to  give.  Exhausted,  she  turned  to  the 
wall  again. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  breathed. 

How  humble,  how  contrite  and  resigned,  the 
bowed  back  now  looked.  He  clasped  the  thin 
hand  upon  the  coverlet.  He  felt  her  fingers'  gentle 
pressure.  .  .  . 

The  nurse  entered,  and  thinking  her  patient 
asleep,  signed  for  him  to  withdraw. 

He  descended  to  the  hall.  From  the  hall's  south 
windows  he  saw  the  fat  man  chopping  wood. 
From  the  north  window  he  saw  the  boats  of  half 
a  dozen  absorbed  anglers  bobbing  at  anchor  above 
Trout  Hole.  He  paced  to  and  fro. 

Poor  Prudence!  He  heard  again  her  plaint: 
"  Don't  you  think  it's  cruel  ?  I'm  only  a  girl. 
Don't  you  think  it's  cruel  ?  " 

But  abandoning  Prudence,  his  thoughts  leaped 
towards  Diana. 

She  had  left  him.  Her  support  withdrawn,  he 
would  work  no  more. 

And  a  storm  of  rage  and  hatred  shook  him,  in 
288 


John  Cave 

its  clutch  he  longed  for  the  death  of  his  faithless 
wife,  but  as  quickly  as  it  had  come  the  storm  passed. 

He  had  found  it  impossible  to  face  Collier,  Clay- 
ton and  Gray,  but  why  had  he  fled  without  a  word  ? 
Nobody  knew  where  he  was.  What  did  they 
think?  Herkimer,  perhaps,  understood,  but  to 
desert  the  helm  without  a  word  was  the  kind  of 
thing  a  strong  soul  like  Herkimer  could  never 
forgive. 

But  all  that  was  nothing  beside  the  loss  of 
Diana. 

Her  desertion  caused  him  intolerable  pain.  It 
seemed  altogether  unnatural,  like  a  mother's  de- 
sertion of  her  child.  She  knew  how  much  he 
needed  her. 

He  loved  her  more  than  he  had  ever  loved  any- 
one, more  than  his  father,  more  than  his  mother. 
Perhaps,  if  he  had  been  a  little  wiser,  a  little  kinder, 
their  horrible  shipwreck  might  have  been  averted. 
But  they  were  both  so  young,  so  inexperienced! 
If  only  someone  could  have  told  them  in  time  what 
they  now  knew  too  late !  Alas,  too  late ! 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair,  and  to  escape  his 
thoughts,  he  summoned  the  fat  man  to  a  game  of 
cards. 

The  days  passed  like  strange  dreams.  He 
played  cards,  fished,  took  long  walks  over  the 
mountains,  and  every  night  in  the  hall,  at  a  little 
289 


John  Cave 

table  before  a  fire  of  birch  logs  in  the  granite 
chimney,  he  smoked  and  drank  with  the  fat  man. 
He  argued  across  the  table.  It  grew  very  late. 
Sometimes  the  nurse,  appearing  magically  at  his 
elbow,  reminded  him  that  Prudence  slept.  Then, 
abashed,  he  drank  and  smoked  in  silence. 

A  strange  time.  He  drank  as  he  had  never  done, 
yet  he  slept  well,  his  appetite  was  good,  he  even 
took  on  weight.  And  thanks  to  the  alcohol,  all 
his  troubles,  the  loss  of  Diana,  the  wreck  of  his 
career,  poor  Prudence's  approaching  death,  seemed 
as  unreal  as  the  thin  grey  wraiths  of  dreams.  .  .  . 

Prudence,  calm  in  her  white  bed,  grew  always 
weaker.  Only  John's  presence  excited  her. 
Therefore  his  visits  became  few  and  brief.  For 
each  of  his  visits  the  toilet  of  the  dying  girl  was 
made  with  extreme  care. 

"  Have  I  been  very  wicked  ? "  she  asked  one 
morning. 

"You  wicked!" 

Her  eyes  flamed.  A  deep  flush  appeared  on  each 
cheek  bone.  She  breathed  convulsively. 

"  I  have." 

"No,  no." 

With  his  voice,  with  his  smile,  he  tried  to  soothe 
her;  but  her  agitation  increased.  Trembling, 
breathing  stormily,  she  panted: 

"  The  Bible  says  —  it  says " 

290 


John  Cave 

Then  she  choked,  and,  as  she  motioned  distract- 
edly for  him  to  go,  blood  gushed  from  her  mouth 
and  streamed  like  bright  red  ribbons  down  her 
white  gown.  She  glanced  in  despair  at  the  bril- 
liant disorder  of  those  widening  streaks,  and  with 
both  hands  she  waved  him  from  the  room,  choking, 
gasping: 

"  Oh,  go !     Won't  you  please  go  ?  " 

The  doctor  was  summoned  in  haste.  He  spent 
the  day  at  her  bedside.  John  and  the  fat  man 
smoked  and  read  in  silence  in  the  hall. 

At  sunset  the  doctor  came  and  leaned  against 
the  chimneypiece.  "  You  may  ascend,  gentlemen." 
There  was  in  his  face  the  abashed  look  which  death 
creates. 

The  fat  man  rose.  He  knocked  his  pipe  noisily 
against  the  andiron.  Then  he  went  to  the  window 
and  stood  looking  out. 

John  inhaled  and  blew  forth  quickly,  one  after 
another,  huge  clouds  of  smoke. 

"Is  it  the  end?  "he  asked. 

"  A  question  of  minutes." 

He  mounted  the  stairs.  The  fat  man  followed 
him.  As  they  entered  the  room,  the  eyelids  of  the 
dying  girl  fluttered,  but  whether  she  saw  them  or 
not  it  was  impossible  to  say. 

She  was  propped  high  with  pillows.  The  con- 
tour of  her  neck  and  shoulders  was  pure  and  youth- 
291 


John  Cave 

ful.  The  coverlet  moulded  the  long  lines  of  the 
slender  limbs.  Between  the  dark,  luxuriant  masses 
of  her  hair,  the  face,  pale,  with  closed  eyes,  was 
like  a  face  hewn  in  marble.  Only  the  hands,  laid 
upon  her  breast,  moved ;  the  thin  fingers  plucked  at 
the  coverlet  steadily. 

There  was  something  in  that  face  which  abased 
and  horrified  the  two  men.  In  silence,  side  by 
side,  they  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  hands 
twitched  on.  The  nurse,  with  a  movement  tender 
and  caressing,  leaned  over  and  wiped  the  wet  brow. 

Suddenly  Prudence  gave  a  faint  gasp.  Her 
eyes,  full  of  care  and  trouble,  opened  for  an  in- 
stant. Then  her  eyelids  fell,  she  sank  a  little  lower 
on  the  pillow,  her  hands  ceased  their  movement. 


292 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  nocturnal  silence  was  profound.  The  house 
slept,  the  world  slept.  Prudence,  straight  and 
slim  in  her  white  bed,  slept  best  of  all. 

John  Cave  alone  was  wakeful.  He  sat  in  the 
dark,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  face  in  his  hands, 
frowning  into  the  fire. 

For  the  first  time  he  saw  the  secret  of  his  life 
clearly.  He  was  of  the  morass,  to  the  morass  he 
must  always  return.  .  .  . 

Yet  his  aspiring  soul  loved  the  sunlit  heights.  It 
loathed  the  pollution  of  the  morass.  .  .  .  Alas,  all 
loved  the  heights  down  there. 

From  the  hearth  a  wave  of  light  flowed  over 
him,  surged  up  the  wall,  and  receded  silently  into 
the  hearth  again. 

He  knew  the  secret  of  happiness.  Work  was 
the  secret.  All  else  deceived,  or  failed,  or  perished. 
Friends  deceived,  drugs  failed,  passion  perished. 
But  work  remained,  kind  and  fair  and  faithful  to 
the  end.  And  the  more  ardently  and  devotedly 
man  gave  himself  to  work,  the  more  ardour  and 
devotion  work  gave  back,  the  richer  and  finer  were 
the  rewards  that  she  extended  with  both  hands. 
293 


John  Cave 

He  knew  the  secret  of  happiness,  but  he  also 
knew  the  secret  of  his  life.  He,  made  for  the 
morass,  could  not  accept  the  austere  happiness  of 
a  life  of  work.  He  wanted  to,  but  he  could  not  — 
could  not  any  more  than  a  legless  man,  by  wanting 
to,  could  run. 

He  saw  the  end  of  his  life  —  a  succession  of 
struggles,  each  ending  in  defeat,  the  struggles 
growing  rarer  and  the  defeats  more  hopeless  as 
time  passed,  till  finally  he  lay  quiet  in  the  morass, 
an  old,  grey  thing  that  only  suffered. 

He  heard  upstairs  the  sound  of  cautious,  clumsy 
footsteps.  The  fat  man,  awake  again,  had  sought 
once  more  the  bedside  of  the  beautiful  dead  girl. 
After  a  long  silence  the  heavy  footsteps  with- 
drew. .  .  . 

Had  he  the  courage  to  save  himself  from  those 
long  years  of  ignominy?  .  .  .  Perhaps  .  .  . 

He  lit  the  lamp.  He  wrote  a  cheque  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  the  fat  man  — "  For  funeral  expenses 
etc."  Then  he  uncorked  a  fresh  bottle  of  whisky, 
put  it  under  his  arm,  extinguished  the  lamp,  and 
went  out  on  tiptoe. 

The  night  was  still  and  very  starry ;  there  was 
no  moon.  He  stood  a  moment  on  the  edge  of  the 
landing.  The  black  water  was  deep  there.  One 
step  down,  and  all  would  be  over. 

And  with  a  strange  smile  he  imagined  himself 
294 


John  Cave 

taking  that  terrible  step  down.  ...  A  splash  would 
sound  loud  in  the  silence.  He  would  gasp  sharply 
as  the  cold  water  engulfed  him.  The  struggle 
would  begin. 

Would  it  last  long?  A  minute  or  two,  perhaps, 
not  more.  .  .  .  But  how  long  would  it  seem  to 
last? 

He  would  try  to  keep  quite  still,  for,  if  he 
threshed  about  with  legs  and  arms,  he  would  come 
to  the  surface,  breathe,  prolong  the  struggle.  .  .  . 
Yes,  he  would  keep  quite  still  in  those  black  depths, 
and  with  closed  mouth  he  would  hold  his  breath  as 
long  as  he  could.  There  would  be  no  pain  so  long 
as  he  held  his  breath.  But  to  hold  the  breath  till 
one  suffocates  is  impossible.  Swinging  to  and  fro, 
fists  clenched,  limbs  rigid,  lips  compressed,  he  would 
find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  keep  from  breath- 
ing. His  head,  despite  the  cold  water  in  which  it 
was  immersed,  would  swell  and  burn.  And  when, 
nearly  bursting,  he  should  open  his  mouth  at  last 
and  take  a  deep  breath  of  water  instead  of  air  — 
Christ,  what  horrible  pain,  what  unimaginable 
agony,  as  all  that  water  rushed  down,  down  through 
mouth  and  nostrils,  into  his  lungs!  .  .  . 

He  could  not  stand  the  thought.  He  wrung  his 
hands.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  landing  with 
quick  strides. 

A  pistol  shot,  a  dose  of  poison,  a  leap  from  a 


John  Cave 

precipice?  No,  those  methods  were  no  easier.  It 
was  his  cowardice  alone  that  suggested  them. 

But  he  knew  he  would  struggle. 

He  stopped  short  in  his  distracted  walk  and  saw 
himself  clearly  in  the  black  water,  under  the  cold 
stars,  floundering,  amid  foam  and  gurgles,  like 
some  monstrous  fish. 

He  must  drink.  Whisky,  his  old  enemy,  would 
be  a  good  friend  to  him  in  the  end.  He  would 
die  in  a  stupor  like  those  wherein  surgical  opera- 
tions are  performed. 

He  set  out  along  the  lake's  rough  shore.  In  the 
darkness  he  clambered  with  marvelous  ease  over 
granite  boulders,  across  steeps  slippery  with  moss. 
Every  little  while  he  paused  and  drank.  He  pur- 
posed at  last,  stupefied,  to  drop  like  a  stone  into  the 
water.  .  .  . 

He  talked  aloud,  as  the  bottle  emptied,  with 
frantic  gestures.  .  .  . 

The  lake's  black  surface  glimmered  faintly  here 
and  there.  The  mountains  uprose,  mysterious  and 
grand,  into  the  sky.  And  with  their  frosty  scintil- 
lations, their  cold  glitter,  their  palpitant  and  icy 
light,  the  innumerable  stars  resembled  a  host  of 
very  old  men  chuckling  together  over  that  little, 
black  figure  which  now  clambered  on  hands  and 
knees  up  granite  rocks,  now  erected  itself  on  some 
small  eminence  and  gesticulated  violently  towards 
296 


John  Cave 

the  heavens  with  tiny  arms,  now  broke  the  night's 
profound  and  august  silence  with  shrill,  thin 
clamour.  .  .  . 

Jake,  hastening  at  sunrise  towards  the  spring, 
stumbled  over  a  leg  that  protruded  from  a  clump  of 
reeds.  The  young  man  lay  amid  dank  growths  in 
a  marsh,  the  empty  bottle  at  his  side,  prone  in  the 
alcoholic  stupor  of  another  failure. 

Jake  regarded  him  with  astonishment,  disgust, 
pity. 

Then  the  hale  old  fisherman,  taking  John  Cave 
vigorously  by  the  shoulders,  awoke  again  that  soul 
too  timid  ever  to  destroy  itself,  and  too  weak  ever 
to  uplift  from  the  morass  its  weight  of  flesh  in 
sustained  flight. 


297 


"John  Cave." 

"  An  author  of  genius — there  is  really  no 
other  word  for  it.  ...  A  story  of  vivid 
and  palpitating  human  interest.  .  .  .  One 
of  the  most  remarkable  first  novels  we  have 
ever  read." — Daily  Graphic. 

"  A  strong  novel,  a  powerful  story,  a  most 
interesting  and  fascinating  book." — Daily  Mail. 

"  The  book  is  altogether  a  remarkable  one." 
— Outlook. 

"  A  remarkable  work,  an  absorbing  picture. 
Such  a  book  as  '  John  Cave '  is  not  easily  for- 
gotten ;  its  author  should  do  great  things." 
— Globe. 

"  The  author  knows  his  hero  as  one  knows 
one's  most  intimate  friend.  .  .  .  Portrayed 
with  accuracy  and  conviction  .  .  .  force 
and  delicacy." — Daily  News. 

"  Though  it  may  sound  extravagant  praise 
to  say  that  '  John  Cave '  reads  like  the  work 
of  one  of  the  French  masters,  it  is  a  judg- 
ment which  every  chapter  of  this  remarkable 
first  novel  confirms."— -Glasgow  News. 


Barbara  Gwynne 

(LIFE) 

John  Cave 


W.  B.  TRITES 


Some  English  Reviews 


000  129  269 


